


She's Something

by maggsam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, BAMF Lydia Martin, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia Martin, F/M, Martinski Detective Agency, Minor Aiden/Lydia Martin, Minor Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Minor Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Minor Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore, Minor Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Slow Burn, explicit sexual content in later chapters, smartass/confident stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggsam/pseuds/maggsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles would do anything necessary to protect Beacon Hills from the havoc of the supernatural. But this was not one of them.</p><p>Sheriff Stilinski was hardwired to serve and protect, an oath he took as seriously as he took fatherhood. Stiles knew it was the reason he himself felt so strongly about protecting Beacon Hills. But as he stared at his father, he still found his jaw slack with disbelief. </p><p>“Let me get this straight. You want me to marry someone I’ve never met. Not just ‘someone’...a banshee.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> Working on a new story, let me know what you think! ;) xx

Stiles would do anything necessary to protect Beacon Hills from the havoc of the supernatural. But this was not one of them.

Surely his father was mistaken, but knowing his father, (never one to have crossed wires with communication as important as this), of course he wasn't being facetious. Sheriff Stilinski was hardwired to serve and protect, an oath he took as seriously as he took fatherhood. Stiles knew it was the reason he himself felt so strongly about protecting Beacon Hills. But as he stared at his father, he still found his jaw slack with disbelief.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to marry someone I've never met. Not just 'someone'...a banshee."

He watched as the Sheriff slid a hand down his face, noticing how weary his father had grown to look over the past few weeks. Stiles didn't blame him. Beacon Hills was becoming a cesspool of dead teenagers and unsolved cases, even more so than usual.

Ever since Stiles was a child and their family had moved to the small California town, his father had been instructed to bring order. But order was damn near impossible with all the reckless supernatural creatures practically crawling from the depths of the cracks in the rotten soil. They were a menace, dangerous to humans, threatening to expose their presence with every bite, with every ripped neck and every child screaming in pain. It made Stiles' skin crawl. And now, now his father wanted to sell him off like a piece of meat to marry one of them?

"Dad, why?! It's not like I'm the next in line to inherit an elite task force specifically assigned to keep this town safe. It's not like I'm your own son." Stiles gestured wildly, sarcasm dripping from his pouting lips. He hated the way he was reacting, but he couldn't just feign cool indifference. He couldn't help but sound like a petulant child. Stiles wasn't ready to get married. It seemed like his first legal drink was only a mere month ago. (He recently celebrated his twenty-second by taking down a rogue, unregistered wendigo with Allison. Now that was his idea of a good time).

The Sheriff just pinched the bridge of his nose and stood, dusting off his tailored uniform.

"Son, please. Don't give me shit on this. You know it wasn't really my idea anyway. The suits made the call. She's rare, so she's royalty in the supernatural world. Her words have weight. God knows they don't listen to us."

"Yeah," Stiles scoffed, "not unless we put a wolfsbane bullet between their eyes."

"You may have to tone down your prejudice a bit when she gets here."

"And when exactly will that be?" Stiles groaned.

"A week."

"Is she registered?"

"Not yet, but she will be."

Stiles stopped pacing his father's glass office, whipping his head around so fast his neck cracked.

"W-what?! She's not even registered?! DAD!"

"Stiles, I'm warning you," Sheriff Stilinski threatened, pausing to pick up his phone and order a whiskey and an advil with an accusing side look. "Yes, she's unregistered. You won't be able to access her information at this moment, though I know you'll try. You know how elusive banshees can be. Please, son. I've exhausted my options. I've fought this with everything I have. You don't have to love her, it's a political move."

"I thought this was the twenty-first century!" Stiles roared, whacking his fingers together anxiously. "In my generation, people marry for love."

He paused, considering something horrible. "Dad...what about Malia?"

The Sheriff avoided his stare, shuffling the papers around his desk and clearing his throat, before finally sighing. "That's your call, son. Be a man right now. Be the man Beacon Hills needs you to be."

Stiles' chest heaved, frustration threatening to bubble out of his throat, before turning on his heel to exit his father's pristine office, door slamming behind him.

* * *

Allison was polishing arrow heads when Stiles barged in, practically foaming at the mouth.

"I take it your father broke the news?" she smirked, laying down the sharp metal and patting the chair beside her.

"What the fuck?! How do you know about this before I do?" Stiles cried, flopping his body unceremoniously down, resting his elbows on the cold work table in the Argent weaponry room.

"He called in the task force, duh. Hand me that Sauer P226, will you?" Allison gestured to the gun rack.

"No, no." Stiles argued as he rose to select a handgun off the wall. "You keep polishing those arrows. I'll clean and deconstruct. It will give me something to do."

She nodded solemnly. Stiles was freaking out, it was easy to see. She had so desperately wanted to tell him, but orders were orders. When his father brought in the Argents and informed them of Stiles', a-hem... _unfortunate arrangement_ , Allison could practically feel her heart drop for him. It would be hard for anyone to accept the idea of an arranged marriage, but Stiles...Stiles was...complicated, complex, sensitive...and a bit hard to handle. He and been through a lot, and he deserved someone who could not only accept those facets of him, but understand them and relate as well.

Together, the Sheriff and the Argent task force had tried in vain to find a loophole to the marriage arrangement, but when the suits make up their minds, nothing can change it. And the orders had come directly from Deaton himself.

"What are you going to do about Malia?" Allison asked, scrutinizing a spot on the point of the arrow so she wouldn't have to look at his reaction. She heard him audibly sigh.

"Hell if I know. She's not gonna like that."

"You don't seem particularly torn about it."

Stiles glared at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Of course I am, Argent. She is my girlfriend, after all."

"Yeah," Allison agreed, "But you were never in love with her." She watched as his nimble fingers stopped moving over the pieces of the handgun, and turned to look at him.

"When did I tell you that?"

"You didn't."

"Perceptive."

"It's why I'm your best friend." she shrugged before returning to the spotted arrowhead.

"Or maybe," Stiles scoffed, "you're my best friend because my dad is your dad's boss."

Allison snorted with a roll of her eyes. "Please. We both know who's really in charge here."

Stiles couldn't help but laugh. Allison always knew how to cheer him up without having to give one of those dreaded, uncomfortable pep talks.

"I just can't believe I'm going to actually have to marry one of those...creatures."

"You'll be surprised just how humanlike they are." Allison offered, standing up to retrieve another military issued gun that needed cleaning, before placing it in front of Stiles' now completed, clean weapon.

"Is that how you felt about Scott?"

He didn't mean it to sound malicious, he was just genuinely curious. But the way Allison froze before returning to her task made him wish he never brought her ex up in the first place.

"Sorry, still a sore subject?"

Allison shook her head with a roll of her eyes, but Stiles noticed how her lips pursed together.

"I was young and stupid."

"And you're saying you're not now?"

She let out a bark of laughter as she punched his shoulder, hard.

"Shut up, Stilinski."

* * *

He didn't even know her name. From what he knew about banshees, they were either depicted as gruesome hags, or goddesses. Mostly gruesome hags. Unfortunately, all were haunted.

They had that connection with death that made him shudder when he thought too much about it. He wondered if she would be creepy, if he would be able to feel death hang around her like a heavy, non removable coat. Maybe after some time, it would start to hang on him too. Less a coat, more of a storm cloud, covering his vision with cold rain and deep darkness.

She was probably all woe-is-me, black clothes and muttering to herself. Completely out of her mind, like the crazy banshee in Eichen. (The only banshee he had ever come in contact with in all his years of keeping the supernatural in line. Miranda? Marissa?)

Who cared.

She would arrive in a week, and then they had a month to get acquainted before the ceremony.

Whoop-de-fuckin'-do.

* * *

All day cleaners had been vacuuming his flat, making space in his closet, even re-stocking his refrigerator.

Stiles ran his hands through his thick brown hair, frustrated as they clear out the smelly boxes of leftover Chinese and flat beer.

"I was going to eat that!" he lied, sulking down deeper in the barstool chair. They didn't give a shit. They were here to make sure the "queen banshee" would find his apartment presentable.

Of course it was presentable! It was big with minimal furniture, and a giant glass wall overlooking the small California town. When sunrise came, it would wash the entire apartment in a golden light. It was his sacred space, and now it was being intruded.

"Alright there, son?" The sheriff clapped his shoulder, rousing Stiles from his deprecating brooding.

Stiles glared and bit the flesh of his thumb anxiously.

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"She's your age. Maybe a year younger."

He turned the barstool with a squeak, surveying his father with wide eyes.

"You're giving me her age?"

"Well you're gonna meet her in an hour anyway. I figured no harm done," the Sheriff said with a shrug, pulling at his too-tight necktie.

He was right.

It's not like Stiles could hop onto any database and search for her information now. Ready or not, she was coming.

* * *

The flat was clean and empty with half an hour to spare. It gave Stiles plenty of time to crack open another case of beer, and wallow in self pity.

Malia had not taken kindly to the break up, but in truth, Stiles knew if this banshee hadn't been the final axe, something else would have. Malia was sexy and a bit rough around the edges, but she had cared about Stiles. More than most girls ever had.

He was the next in line to run a private, multi-million underground corporation that protected the citizens of Beacon Hills from the supernatural. Apparently, Beacon Hills was the Mecca for freaks and foes. They would appear, and they would be greeted with arrows and gunfire from the Argent task force. The Sheriff would pass down orders, and the Argents would carry them out. Like a well oiled machine, brain and brawn.

_Hello, welcome to Beacon Hills. Follow our orders and register yourself, or get out. Or, face imminent death. The choice is yours._

Anyway, girls weren't a priority, and if they were, it wasn't his smart-ass wit and suffocating-sarcasm that dazzled them. Everyone in the small town knew he was the son of the Sheriff, and that much was true. They just didn't know how extensive the town's police department was, or why they were privately funded from an undisclosed source.

Stiles knocked back the alcohol before his father could return once more and chastise him, and of course, before she arrived.

His mind had been a hurricane of flooding thoughts ever since he was given the news.

She was his every waking thought. Would she be kind? would she be strong? He thinks he'll shoot himself in the face if she's stupid. That would be a deal breaker. And of course, hopefully she didn't look like the drawings of a banshee in The Bestiary. But apparently, since she was around his age, old hag was out of the question. Hag, possibly. Old hag, no more.

The Sheriff reappeared behind Stiles, making him startle and choke on his beer.

"Went off to give Chris a call. They just entered the territory. Don't worry, I'm not going to nag you. Pass one to your old man?" he sighed, and Stiles placed a cold brew in his outstretched hand. The Sheriff popped the tab with a hiss, and gulped the liquid down before sighing once more.

"You know, I'm really proud of you. And your mom would have been proud of you too."

Stiles paused the bottle at his flushed lips, jaw clenching and unclenching before murmuring, "Can we not talk about mom when something like this is about to happen?"

"Sure, I'm sorry. But...you should know. it's true. I know this marriage is...unfortunate. But you're doing what you need to do to protect your people. You put them before yourself, and I'm proud of that. I'm proud you're my son." The Sheriff continued anyway, and gave Stiles' shoulder a squeeze.

They sat together, father and son, in bittersweet silence for a few minutes. Taking in what was sure to be their last moment together with Stiles' freedom.

"Let's put this away before she gets here, huh?" The Sheriff finally suggests, and they both moved to put the spare bottles in the fridge as a knock arrived at the door.

"That'll be the Argents with them." he said, and turned to give Stiles a back breaking hug. "You can do this."

Stiles nodded, letting out a shaky sigh of resignation.

The first person to enter his apartment is Chris Argent, who gives a nod to him and his father before whipping out his cell phone to let the rest of the squad know they've arrived safely. Allison marches through next, and Stiles stills immediately at the look on her face. She's completely devoid of color, the blood rushing out of her face and eyes wide. He stares at her, trying to silently ask what's wrong, before she ducks her head down, cutting off eye contact. The next person to enter is a kind-eyed young man about their age with tan skin and dark hair. He doesn't even look at Stiles, just stares at Allison, and immediately, with an idea that hits him like a sledgehammer, Stiles realizes this had to be Scott. Another man follows him in, tall with blonde curls, and Stiles' eyes begin to bulge. Just how many people were entering his apartment? What is this like, the banshee's freaking personal court?!

Finally, she enters.

She's pretty, and he lets out a sigh of relief.

He moves forward to take her hand, and her almond eyes widen.

"Oh, no, no." she says, raising her hands to him and shaking her head. "S-sorry. I'm not Lydia, I'm Kira."

"I'm Lydia."

He hears a mellow, raspy voice from behind the pretty Asian-American girl, who slowly moves out of the way, allowing Stiles to see the most beautiful creature he's ever seen in his life. He drinks her in and she's looking directly into his soul with the biggest green eyes ever, her wavy hair a soft, gentle red. She's got bee-stung lips, flushed cheeks, and he notices dimples appear the more he stares. She's wearing a dress and towering heels that reek of couture. The heels are so high that she herself must be tiny in comparison. He knows his eyes have gone hazy and jaw slack, but he can't find it in himself to care.

"Lydia Martin," she says, teeth flashing, smile deadly. "Your future wife."


	2. Underestimated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm SUPER EXCITED FOR THIS FIC YOU GUYS OMG. I can tell you right now, it will be much longer than Because of Stiles. 
> 
> Hope you like! xx

The Sheriff is the first to clear his throat, before gesturing to the living room couch. The group shuffles in uncomfortable silence, moving to settle into the squishy couches and chairs that, for the first time, seem all too small to Stiles.

Once Allison sits with a rigid spine, pulling out paperwork and spreading it across the coffee table with shaking hands. Stiles, even in his Lydia-induced haze, reminds himself to pull her aside later to talk.

“S-so.” she begins, and is quick to roll her eyes for her slight stutter. “Lydia, welcome to Beacon Hills. My name is Allison Argent, and I’m the head of the Argent task force. You’ve already met my father, who’s escorted you from the airport.” she gestures to Chris Argent, who nods solemnly, blue eyes piercing. Lydia nods back, equally solemn.

“And of course, this is Sheriff Stilinski, head of the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department and Law Enforcement.”

Stiles’ father gives her a tight smile, but makes no move to shake her hand.

“And Stiles Stilinski,” Allison continued, eyes flicking to Stiles’ own. “The Sheriff’s son, and your husband-to-be.”

He swallows hard, fighting the urge to start biting his thumb, or drum his fingers, or lick his lips, all dirty habits that were tells for his tendency to be anxious. Instead he gave a close-lipped smile, eyes holding Lydia’s for a moment before flitting away.

“Pleasure.” Lydia murmurs, returning his forced smile. “May I introduce my pack?”

Stiles straightens up, blinking in confusion. “Pack? All my research suggests banshees are solitary creatures.”

There is a beat of uncomfortable silence, and Lydia tilts her head, strawberry blonde hair spilling over her small shoulder.

“You’ll soon come to find there’s a lot to learn about the supernatural world, Mr. Stilinski. A lot about me.”

“Stiles.” he corrects, not liking the way she’s looking at him, like he’s a subject in a petri dish.

She just smiles with dead eyes before turning her attention back to Allison.

“My pack. This is Scott, True Alpha and leader.”

Stiles watched as Allison nodded, feigning ignorance, though he can tell she is absolutely panicking beneath the surface. Lydia babbles on with the introductions, seemingly oblivious to the way Scott and Allison are looking at each other.

“....Isaac, werewolf, and Kira, kitsune.”

They all nod an uncomfortable greeting, and he observes that the pack is all relatively young. All seemingly around Stiles’ own age. This is a rarity. Usually packs are formed by time. Most packs are composed of middle-aged supernatural creatures. Some packs that are registered with the department have existed even before the formation of the Beacon Hills Law Enforcement. But this pack, all in their early twenties, they were...kids.

“Great.” Allison deadpans, “now that you’re here, we can discuss logistics. Lydia, I know your entire pack is registered but you haven’t yet as, according to our paperwork, you’ve been out of town for a few years? We’ll have to get you registered right away. The task force will help unload your belongings and then we’ll escort you to the Sheriff’s Department, where Stiles will personally set you up with your own identification number and code.”

Lydia glances at Stiles from the corner of her eye, and he attempts, and fails, to read her thoughts.

“The process is thorough, and should take about an hour.”

The bashee turns to Scott, brow sinched. “Every supernatural creature has an identification number?”

“Yes.” Stiles answers, though the question was not directed at him. Lydia arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in his direction.

“It’s to ensure the safety of the Beacon Hills citizens, as well as your own safety.” Scott offers, giving Stiles a _hey-buddy-we’re-on-the-same-team-tryna-help-you-out-here look_. Allison clears her throat.

“After you’ve been registered, we will leave you and Stiles to enjoy your new home in peace. However, tomorrow we will all meet once more at the department to go over the politics of the Stilinski/Martin union, and what this means for the future of Beacon Hills. I’ve written an agenda,” she says, handing out immaculate, stapled packets to the pack, “indicating times and locations. Shall we head to the department?”

“My stuff?” Lydia questions, just as burly men entered the apartment, carrying trunk after trunk of what Stiles could only assume to be designer clothing.

“They’ll set you up while we’re there.” Mr. Argent says, and motions for her to follow him out the door.

“Try to be gentle with that,” Lydia huffs as one of her trunks was placed unceremoniously on the ground. “That’s Prada.”

Stiles fights hard not to roll his eyes.

* * *

“Your chariot.” he gestures to his jeep, and Lydia raises her eyebrows.

“What.”

“Your pack, the Argents, and my father, are all being driven to the department. They wanted us to ride together so we at least got to speak before we’re dumped in an empty apartment to live out our lives in very unholy matrimony.” he explains snarkily, climbing into the driver’s side of his jeep. “I don’t need to give you a hand, do I? Maybe get on all fours so you can use my back as a stepping stool?” he smirks down at the bombshell currently shifting her weight uncertainly from one heeled foot to another.

She rolls her eyes at his smartass commentary. “This thing actually runs?”

“Hey.” Stiles warns, pointing his finger at her. “First thing you need to know about me? Respect the jeep. You may be my wife, but this is my baby.”

Lydia just huffs and tosses her thick hair behind her shoulder before hoisting herself into the passenger seat.

“I’m not your wife yet, Mr. Stilinski.”

“And thank God for that!” Stiles grins evilly before throwing the car quickly in reverse, causing Lydia’s head to snap back. She lets out a yelp of either pain or fear or both, before two stormy eyes lock onto his own.

“FUCK! Do you always drive like a maniac!?” she shrieks, and Stiles is so startled by her language and sudden lack of propriety that he slams on the brakes.

“Well, well, well. We’ve got quite the mouth, huh Princess?”

She just glares at him, buckling her seatbelt with a vicious _click_.

 

They drive together in silence past the park reserves, trees whizzing by in the summer sun. Stiles is grateful for the silence because his mind is currently whirling and wheeling with dozens of scenarios and emotions. This is the first time they are alone together, and it won’t be the last. He doesn’t know what to make of her yet. She’s a knockout, and a shallow part of him is relieved. But under the surface, she’s supernatural, and dangerous. He can’t forget. He must never allow himself to forget that she is nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“I forgot how beautiful it is here.” she speaks, startling him out of his thoughts.

“You lived here?” he asks, with a surprised glance in her direction.

Lydia exhales sharply through her nose, like he asked a stupid question. “Of course.”

She leans forward to fiddle with the radio, scanning the stations. “How else would I have met my pack?”

“Hey, you do know that a radio is a sacred thing. You have to ask permission from the driver to control the radio.”

She slowly turns, looking at him with a sickly sweet smile which he meets with a wary and withering glance.

“What’s yours is mine, right? It’s our baby now.” Lydia smirks, spreading her hands lovingly across the dashboard.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

She throws her head back and actually laughs. “Oh, shut up and enjoy.”  

Stiles side-eyes her. She has a cute laugh...you know...for a death predicting psychopath.

The music she chooses is a top-forty pop song, and he can hear her hum along, low in her throat. It’s girly and catchy, and he’s beginning to collect these moments, little clues to who exactly Lydia Martin is: a girly-girl through and through. Probably never got her hands dirty.

He doesn’t think before he says it.

“You look a lot like a human, you know.” Stiles murmurs, and Lydia whips around to stare at him incredulously.

“That would be because I am a human, genius.”

“No,” Stiles mutters with a shake of his head, eyes on the road. “You’re a banshee.”

She just stares at him before turning to face the road as well.

“How long have you been keeping the supernatural in line, would you say?”

He’s surprised at her line of questioning, but complies with a scratch of his head. “Since birth, I guess. My dad’s been the Sheriff here for as long as I can remember. And before that he’s always been in law enforcement.”

“Then you have a predisposed bias.”

He turns to her with eyebrows raised, only to find her looking at him with the same expression.

“Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah.” she huffs, crossing her arms across her chest. “If you were to ask any supernatural creature here what they were first and foremost, they’d say a human being. And whose to say they’d be wrong about that?”

Stiles considers this for a moment.

“Last month, Allison and I took down a wendigo that ate his entire family from the waist up. When we arrived, his baby sister was looking at us, still breathing. Seven years old. Half of her body missing, and still breathing.”

He watches her eyes widen as she audibly gulps.

“Well,” she rasps, “That’s different.”

He furrows his brows at her, glaring critically.

“Windigos are fucking crazy.” she smirks, biting her lower lip.

He can’t help but laugh and shake his head.

* * *

 

Her heels click as Stiles leads her down glass hallways and cubicles to the registration center. He’s used to people looking at him because he is the Sheriff’s son, but today, all anyone was looking at was Lydia. If she noticed, she pretended not to.

“Stilinski,” he hears a call, turning to see deputy Parrish beckon him with a wave of his hand and a toothpaste-ad worthy smile.

“Straight ahead, I’ll be right there.” Stiles motions to her. She nods and continues to sashay her way to the double doors at the end of the hall.

“Parrish,” Stiles greats, lightly jogging to the handsome young deputy, currently grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“That her?” he points to Lydia’s retreating figure.

“Yup.” Stiles says glumly.

“NICE. A-plus!” he smirks, and Stiles watches his eyes rake down the back of Lydia’s form. “Her hips, oh my god. Hypnotizing. That sway…” Parrish trails when he notices Stiles’ scornful gaze.

“Okay pervert, nice chat.”

“I’m just saying, if they told me THAT was going to be my wife? I wouldn’t be complaining.”

Stiles tries to forget about Parrish’s condescending comments as he jogs back to Lydia, but as he approaches, he can’t help but watch her hips swing back and forth, floaty skirt brushing the very tip of her thighs.

He hates himself.

* * *

Lydia’s blood was drawn, and she received a full physical, though she complained about it the entire time. Stiles and Allison watch her roll her eyes and flip her hair from behind a two-way mirror.

“She sure is something.” Allison mutters, a smile curling up in the corner of her lips.

“She sure is.” Stiles agrees, running a hand through his dark hair.

“You gonna be okay?” she turns to face him.

“I think the real question here is are YOU gonna be okay? I’m guessing that’s the Scott?”

Allison nods before rolling her eyes.

“When I was debriefed, I was told she was part of a pack. A banshee? In a pack? Already odd in its own right. I should have asked more questions.”

“Hey, of all the alphas in Beacon Hills, how were you to know?”

She shrugs and looks out to Lydia, now bending down to touch her toes. Stiles was right. Without her heels, she was tiny. He looks down at his chart. 5’3. He is almost a foot taller.

“Look at this,” Allison points to the chart. “IQ level- certified genius. You’ve got a smart one there.”

“Could have fooled me.” Stiles narrows his eyes, heart quickening.

Allison just smiles at him knowingly before clearing her throat, continuing.

“Scott was a beta when we were together. His alpha was Derek Hale, but Derek evolved and left Beacon Hills.”

“Haven’t you ever been curious and looked Scott up on the database?” he asks, and Allison vehemently shakes her head.

“I didn’t want to invade his privacy. Something you’re unfamiliar with, as you’re already pouring through Lydia’s chart.” she laughs, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

They stand in amicable silence for a bit, observing Lydia chat with the doctor about the organs that compose a cow’s intestines of all things.

“Does your dad know about Scott?” Stiles finally asks.

“Unfortunately. He wasn’t too happy about it at the time. It was just a fling though.”

He pretends like he doesn’t notice her lying through her teeth, just as he pretends not to notice Allison howl with laughter when Lydia turns to the two-way mirror, waving her fingers at them with a smug smile.

* * *

When the doctor had finishes examining Lydia, they bring her into Stiles’ office.

“She’s a delightful one.” the doctor smiles before waving goodbye to Lydia.

“Flirting with the doctor, huh Lydia?” he says as soon as the door to his office is closed. Lydia looks around his room, spacious but not overly grand. Framed diplomas and certificates line the wall behind him, and she notices he even has a few picture frames on his desk.

She prances over to his desk, sitting on the surface and crossing her legs. “Jealous, Stilinski?”

Stiles just smirks and points to the chair in front of his desk, watching as she sighs but compliantly takes a seat.

“Who are these of?” she asks, reaching forward to grab a picture frame. It’s Stiles and Allison grinning with their arms around each other, each wearing a uniform and holding guns the size of her body.

“Oh shit,” she breathes, “You guys don’t mess around here.”

“No we don’t.” Stiles replies, studying the way she takes in the picture and his office.

“Is that why you treat me like I’m a criminal?” she asks, and it startles him.

“Excuse me?”

“You treat me like I’ll commit a crime. A full body physical, an interrogation, and I’ll have my own identification number?! I’m thrilled.” she says, oozing sarcasm with a smile.

“Well then you’ll really like this.” Stiles moves to open his desk drawer. “Fingerprints.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She huffs, but allows Stiles to take her hand, rolling her fingers slowly in black ink and pressing it to paper. He tries to calm himself when he feels how soft her hands are, or when she flips her hair behind her shoulder and he can smell flowers and warm, mouth-watering scents. And when he prints out her identification card and reads out her number, he acts as if he doesn’t notice the way her face falls and her hands slightly shake.

* * *

They’re silent on the drive home, and when Stiles unlocks the door to the apartment, the first thing Lydia does is take her heels off. He watches in amusement as she promptly drops about six inches in height.

“Do you wear heels a lot?” he asks, moving to take off his coat.

“Just everyday.”

“I would count that as a lot.”

“Beauty is pain, darling.”

She’s teasing him, but it’s strange to hear her call him that. They stand in the foyer as the weight of reality begins to descend upon them. This wasn’t some sleepover. Lydia wouldn’t be leaving after a week or so. She was here to stay for the unforeseeable future. It was no longer Stiles’ apartment. This was her home now too.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, just to break the silence, and she nods, following him to the refrigerator. He begins to list what they have, pulling out various items here and there that he thinks might appease her, but she ducks under his outstretched arm and goes right to the freezer.

“Ice cream. Someone tipped them off I have a serious thing for Ben & Jerry’s.” she sighs happily, and starts opening various drawers in search of a spoon.

He studies her move around his--uh, _their_ kitchen, with confidence that he realizes she has plenty of. She’s humming to herself, digging a spoon into the cardboard container, and brings the creamy dessert up to her mouth with a moan.

The most beautiful girl he’s ever seen is in his, _dammit,_ **their** kitchen, moaning and eating ice cream. Stiles’ professionalism goes out the window for a moment, blatantly drinking her in.

“You know what would make this even better?” she interrupts his rapidly declining thought process.

“W-what.” he stammers, shaking his head.

“Pajamas.”

She puts down the spoon and moves to the bedroom.

“I wonder if they’ve unpacked everything…?” she trails off, and he follows dutifully behind her, almost bumping into her as she halts in the doorway.

“What’s this?” Lydia points to a giant see-through board that takes up a third of the room, filled with notes and pictures, red strings criss crossing the surface.

“Oh, uh, that’s just something I work on during my down time. Theories, supernatural occurrences, trying to find connections…” he trails off as she examines the board. “Actually, it’s confidential information, and I’m surprised they left it there, so…” Stiles moves to roll the board from the bedroom, but Lydia reaches her arms out, barring the door with an odd look.

“You’ll marry me, but you won’t let me see your...conspiracy board?”

“It’s got sensitive information on it.” Stiles explains with a wild wave of his hand, brows knitting together.

“So it’s always going to be like this then.”

She says it so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her.

“Like what?”

“Hiding from each other.”

“I’ve only just met you, and you want me to tell you confidential government information.” Stiles deadpans, and she huffs, crossing her arms.

“Well Stilinski, maybe if you knew more about what I am capable of, you wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss my help.”

He squints at her and she sends him a flirty grin back. She was going to be trouble.

“We’ll talk about this later.” she says, moving past him to open the closet door and then to the dresser. “Now, pajamas. It looks like they’ve unpacked my things--Oh!” she says, a smirk growing on her full lips as she opens the top dresser drawer. “They’ve put our things together. How...cute.”

Stiles moves across the room, hovering over her shoulder before immediately flushing as he looks down at the spectacle that was once his underwear drawer. His boxer briefs and socks lay untouched and next to them, a vibrant, multi-colored cluster of tiny, stringy panties.

“W-wow.” he mumbles, face flushing. “This is...really happening...isn’t it.”

Lydia’s smile slips off her face.

“Yeah.” she breathes, and moves to sit down on the bed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Stiles stands, uncomfortable and itchy in his skin.

“Well...I’m gonna get some fresh air for a bit…” he trails off, motioning to the balcony outside the bedroom window.

“I think I’ll postpone the ice cream and pajamas in favor for a shower.” Lydia murmurs, eyes downcast.

“S-sure,” Stiles spins to point to an adjoining door, “bathroom is there, towels and stuff should be in there, shower isn’t too tricky--”

“Yeah, thanks.” she cuts him off and swiftly moves to enter, door slamming behind her.

* * *

He puts the ice cream on the counter away for her. Is this what life was going to be like? Cleaning up after Lydia Martin? He has a feeling that it was the tip of the iceberg. She was probably used to people doing things for her. She was probably sheltered, had never really experienced true hardship or pain.

Stiles screws his face up, lifting the cigarette between his fingers to take a drag. Allison and his father hate the habit, but it’s the only thing that calms him when he’s anxious. The amount he smokes varies. Usually it was one or two a day. Sometimes he went days without smoking, once he chain smoked for an entire month. Sure it was a deathtrap, but so is feeling like you can’t move or breathe. Like your heart is pounding so hard it might stop completely. Besides, it was comforting to watch the smoke enter the night sky and mix with the stars.

He breathes in deep, exhaling with a shaky breath.

“I didn’t know you were a smoker.”

Her voice startles him, and he jumps as his head whips to her, and is immediately startled again.

Lydia Martin is standing on his balcony, watching him with careful eyes, body completely devoid of clothing.

His first instinct is to smack his hand over his eyes and let out a yelp, his second is to blush and flutter his eyes as he searches for words, but to his surprise he doesn’t do either. His heart pounds ferociously in his chest, but he just stills, staring at her quizzically.

His hand shakes as he brings the cigarette back up to his lips, and blows out smoke, tongue darting out to lick his lips as his eyes rake down her figure.

And damn is it a gorgeous figure.

“And Princess, I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist.” he bites.

She immediately flushes, and he watches as her previous bravado seems to waver.

“There’s no one to look except trees, dumbass. We’re on the edge of the forest reserve.”

“There’s always something watching.”

“Paranoid much?”

“Lydia, what the fuck are you doing?”

She stills for a few beats.

“I was going to shower. Do you want to join me?”

“I know what you’re doing, you know.”

Lydia huffs out a laugh, tossing her hair and crossing her arms over her bare chest.

“Oh? And what would that be, Stilinski?”

“I’m used to reading people. It’s my job.”

“Great. You know me so well already. What am I then?” she challenges, eyes flashing.

“A genius.”

For the second time, Stiles Stilinski makes something still inside of her.

“You know about that?”

“It was on your chart, but even if it wasn’t, I’d know.”

Lydia’s eyes fall to the side. “They told me you were pretty bright yourself.”

“I am.” he says seriously. “That’s why you don’t fool me with this little act of yours.”

“And what act would that be, Einstein?”

Stiles quickly stands, glaring down at the redhead with increasing annoyance.

“I bet you’re used to getting your way. I bet you are great at manipulating others so they don’t have to expect much from you besides a smile and batting eyelashes. But there’s something deeper, isn’t there?”

He watches as her lips part, and her brow begins to furrow, and suddenly it hits him. The pieces of the puzzle fitting for the first time.

“You’re used to people underestimating you, and you do it on purpose, don’t you? You’re a dangerous force at work, Lydia Martin. And I have to admit, for a couple of moments, you even had me going. But I never will again. I promise you.”

There is a harsh silence as both of their chests heave up and down at his words.

“That doesn’t sound like a promise,” Lydia breathes, jaw clenching. “It sounds like a threat.”

“It can be whatever you want, Princess.” he replies, flashing her the same wicked smile she had flashed him when they first met.

She stares at him incredulously before finally turning to retreat back into the privacy of the apartment, and after a few frozen moments, he hears the shower turn on.

Stiles let out a shaky breath. He just had his first argument with his wife-to-be, and she was completely naked the entire time. He was going to need to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes to calm down from that encounter.

“You sure are something, Lydia Martin.” he whispers into the night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you don't like smoker Stiles! I myself am not a smoker, and I'm not expert on it, so it won't be a big part of his character. Just wanted to add a quirk. (And okay yes, I'm a slave to corporate influence, I think it makes him more bad ass. And if you haven't noticed my tags in this fic BAMF Stiles is included. Expect to see fight scenes and Allison/Stiles assassin/soldier-like qualities in the future. And Lydia's banshee abilities will have a spotlight as well). Hope it's not too OOC!! 
> 
> Chapters from here on out will alternate between Lydia/Stiles-centric, so we'll hear more from Lydia's POV. Like, girl-why-did-you-show-up-naked-props-to-you-though-that-takes-major-balls. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! xx


	3. Gesture of Goodwill

They haven’t spoken a word to each other since last night.

Last night.

Everytime she thinks about it, she wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole. First lesson: As it turns out, Stiles Stilinski can not be easily persuaded.

Lydia doesn’t even bother applying blush to her cheeks, because she’s sure that she’ll be flushed all day around him. Instead she finishes her mascara, straps her feet into her heels, and wills herself to keep her head up and vision steel. His gaze will not shrink her, won’t let her knees knock or her lip quiver. She’s not ashamed of herself, and she’s sure as hell not going to start now. It took her a very long time to make sure boys don’t have power over her in that way, and if she was going to be Stiles Stilinski’s permanent roommate, she needs all the confidence she can possibly muster.

Together in silence, they walk past the couch he slept on last night, blanket and pillow still mussed from his tossing and turning, and Lydia pointedly keeps her vision straight ahead. She tries not to remember how he quietly took a pillow from the bed, as well as a spare blanket, and left her alone in his bedroom with nothing but her dangerous thoughts.

She wanted desperately to call someone, unload the weight of her current circumstance, and her finger hovered over Kira in her contacts. But in the end, she settled for herself. Kira was relatively new to the pack, and she wasn’t quite comfortable enough to share her her humiliation and secrets with the kitsune. And Scott, well, Scott was as good of a friend as a friend could be. But he doesn’t understand her.

He is kind, and sweet, and tried his best, always. But he wasn’t what she needed. She needed someone cunning and clever like herself. She needed someone whose corners were darkened and whose mind was as trap. She needed someone who needed facts and hard evidence and conclusions. She needed someone who wouldn’t judge because they understood. She needed someone who didn’t exist.

Lydia Martin needed an equal.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski’s office is substantially bigger than Stiles’ own, and much more glamorous, though she suspects it’s to the Sheriff’s dismay. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d enjoy an all glass office, complete with high-end electronics, a gold nameplate and a paperweight that Lydia estimates to be over a thousand dollars.

He shifts uncomfortably as he ushers Lydia and Stiles through the door to the leather couches in the corner of his office where her pack and the Argents are sitting, all staring vigilantly at the pair.

“Glad you’re here.” Scott murmurs as Lydia primly takes a seat by his side, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her skirt. “Was everything okay last night, are you alright?”

“Yes,” she breaths lowly into his ear. “Don’t worry about me.”

She fights not to look him in the eye, because if she does, he’ll know. He can probably already smell the humiliation that’s practically radiating off of her. Humiliation, fear, uncertainty...he certainly will have a smorgasbord of scents to choose from her this morning.

Instead she focuses her gaze on the pale brunette that sits across from her. Allison feels her gaze, eyes flicking up and giving her a small smile, one that makes deep dimples appear in her clear skin, and suddenly Lydia makes a decision.

Allison it is.

After a few minutes of the Sheriff asking if anyone needed a water or a coffee, Chris Argent finally begins to talk logistics.

“So, you’re wedding is scheduled for next month. I’m not sure if you two have discussed any plans…?” he trails off, noticing the stony look on both of their faces. “Okay, that would be a no.”

Allison clears her throat. “Lydia, Stiles, just know that if you would at all be interested in organizing your wedding, we have a variety of resources at your disposal, so it won’t be hard to coordinate wedding, despite the time crunch.”

Stiles scoffs beside her, folding his arms across his chest and turning his head to look over his shoulder. Lydia can feel his desire to just get up and walk through the door and never look back. At least they’re on the same page when it comes to that.

“I think we’ll fucking pass, thanks.” he spits, and Lydia feels herself bristle at his words.

“Actually, I think we might take you up on that.”

He whips his head around to look at her for the first time, and she feels a jolt of lightening as soon as his whiskey eyes meet hers.

‘ _That will be the last time you speak for me again_ ’ she silently communicates, cocking her head and puckering her lips to blow him a vicious kiss before turning back to Allison. She can still feel his stare on her profile, but she continues to dismiss his presence.

“...okay. Well, um. Let’s talk about what this union will signify for Beacon Hills.” Allison continues hastily, shuffling through her paperwork. “Lydia, you’re part of the McCall pack, which is probably the most influential werewolf pack we have in Beacon Hills.”

Beside her, Lydia feels Scott freeze upon hearing his name on Allison’s lips. Lydia slowly traces a small heart on his shoulder blade with her fingertip.

“One of the greatest determining factors of this, is that’s it’s comprised of supernatural creatures other than just werewolves. Which, according to our data, is practically unheard of. This garners respect in the supernatural community. But the most notable is Lydia, because her status as a banshee.”

Lydia is used to people looking at her with surprise in their eyes when they learn she is a banshee. She’s gotten it from her friends, from her enemies. Everyone is always taken back by it. It’s rare in the supernatural world, but she doesn’t feel special or important. It almost makes her feel dirty. It just reminds her of that night on the lacrosse field. She was violently thrusted into a world she didn’t choose to be apart of.

“Lydia, your words and your influence hold weight in the supernatural community. The supernatural are eager to heed the words of a banshee.”

“So,” Lydia smiles, teeth flashing, “What would you like me to say? I’m madly in love with the son of Sheriff Stilinski? The Beacon Hills Law Enforcement is a blessing to us? To trust them?”

Stiles shifts beside her, and the Sheriff shoots Chris Argent a look.

“They will follow your example. No words are necessary.” Mr. Argent speaks tentatively. “However...should anyone question your motives, or act you to speak on them...that would be the appropriate response.”

She feels like hurling herself through the wide glass windows of the Sheriff’s office, plummeting down down down.

“If I may,” Scott speaks beside her, startling everyone, “I’ve known Lydia for a very long time. She has saved my life over and over again.”

He turns to face her, big brown eyes widening to take her in. “I would do anything for Lydia, and Lydia would do anything for anyone. She wants to help protect as many people as she can. And that’s the reason why we’re doing this.” Scott scans the room, pausing to collect his thoughts. “We’re on the precipice now. Not just the supernatural community, but this entire town. For so long my pack has been battling evil forces alone, or under the radar. For so long it’s been just us, struggling to save our community from supernatural creatures that can’t control themselves, or even worse, choose not to. My pack doesn’t believe in that monstrous nature. We believe in protecting the innocent. But we can no longer do it alone. And neither can you.” he faces the Sheriff.

Lydia watches as the Sheriff take his words in, and to her surprise, sees sincerity fill his eyes. He believes Scott.

She knows his department has been monitoring their pack since their formation, and even though this is the first time they’ve directly communicated, Scott is trusted. He always seems to have that effect on people, the Sheriff not being an exception.

“I just,” Scott murmurs, licking his lips. “I just want you all to know that we’re not taking this lightly. When your department approached Lydia and I with this negotiation, I can’t begin to tell you how much it shook her. Lydia is giving up more than I could ever imagine, and as her alpha, it’s my responsibility to protect her. I was against it from the beginning. But Lydia...she accepted despite my reservations. She convinced me that this was for the greater good. She was willing to sacrifice her free will and her future and…” Scott trails off with a shake of his head, and Lydia feels like she can’t get a good breath in.  She’s hyper aware of how Stiles is too still beside her, and for the first time in a long time, the gravity of the situation hits her again, unmovable and unyielding.

“She’s she’s doing this because she wants to help. She’s doing this because she cares more about the well being of the Beacon Hills citizens then her own.” Scott leans forward to look at Stiles, and directs his next words right to him. “She’s doing this for you.”

Stiles blinks, mouth parted and eyes heavy. Lydia looks down and notices his fingers tapping together, hands trembling.

“She’s doing this for all of you.”

It’s quiet as they all digest his words. Allisons face is burning as she looks at Scott, but she is the first to regain her composure.

“Thank you. Sincerely. Thank you. Combining our efforts has frankly, been a long time coming. And just like your pack, we only want what’s best for Beacon Hills. This union will protect the citizens, but also the innocent and law abiding supernatural.”

The room is silent for a few moments more before the Sheriff clears his throat.

“Once the union is completed, Alan Deaton, our commander, has requested to meet with you all. I suppose to thank you for your support.”

Stiles’ eyes widen slightly. He’s never met Deaton. He doesn't think his father has even had much of an encounter with him, besides enforcing his orders. Again, a hush falls upon the group, and stretches for the longest amount of time yet.

“So,” Isaac suddenly speaks up, shimmying his shoulders slightly. “What’s next on the agenda?”

It’s easier to move on after that.

* * *

Her heels click beside Stiles as the group makes their way to the department parking lot. Stiles has yet to look at her even after the meeting, but he slowly sticks his pointer finger out and softly brushes the skin on the back of her hand.

It’s the very first time he’s touched her.

Lydia feels a kiss of heat bloom from the whispery contact, and senses a tug at her chest. She’s never felt anything like that sensation, and when he sucks in a breath beside her, she knows he’s never felt it either. And just like that, a mutual understanding passes between them. Last night is forgiven and forgotten.

As they approach his jeep, Allison begins to break off, heading to her car.

“I’m going to go with Allison.” Lydia says briskly, and Allison looks up from her keys to the banshee.

“Oh?” Stiles says, looking to Allison with raised eyebrows.

“Yes.” Lydia says, and strides over to the girl. “Allison and I are going to chat and grab a coffee. I’ll see you later.”

“Uh...okay.” Allison muses, and shoots Stiles a curious glance. “Lydia, did we have something scheduled?”

“No,” Lydia sniffs, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “But this has been long overdue.”

 

 

She watches in amusement as Lydia lists off a long and complicated order with precision before strutting to Allison, handbag in the crook of her elbow and coffee in hand.

“Honestly,” she says, settling into the plush leather chair across from Allison with a cross of her legs, “I know I shouldn’t be such a stereotype but Starbucks really does make my day better.”

Allison surprises herself by laughing. “I suppose after that meeting, you definitely needed this.” The banshee was amusing, and she had to hand it to her, Lydia could definitely hold her own.

“Soooo,” Lydia drags out, in a way that is anything but casual. “You and Scott?”

 _Fuck_. She should have known.

“Yeah.” Allison murmurs, self-consciously tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “But, that was a very long time ago.”

Lydia leans forward and touches her shoulder, and surprisingly it comforts her.

“Time doesn’t stop it from having an impact, you know. First loves are powerful. I hope it’s not too awkward to be working together now.”

“Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting to see him. I didn’t know he was the alpha of your pack.”

“No!” Lydia gasps dramatically, eyes huge and luminous, and again, Allison is surprised that she smiles in response. There’s something about Lydia’s girly enthusiasm that is refreshing after spending an entire childhood with Stiles’ sarcasm and general boyishness.  

“Oh my god I would die.”

“I just about did.”

“Well, I haven’t really got much of a chance to speak to him since yesterday, but I can tell he was just as shocked as you were. I mean, we knew the Argent task force would be our guides, but I just don’t think he was expecting to see...you.” Lydia offers, licking whipped cream off her finger.

“Yeah well, I think I’ve gotten the better end of the stick compared to you.”

Lydia freezes as soon as Allison says it.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean--”

“No, no it’s fine, it’s fine.” Lydia waves her hand. “Allison it’s fine. I just. I know we don’t know each other, like at all. But Scott’s mentioned you. He said you were a good person. And I...I really need a good person right now.”

She watches Allison’s eyes dart across her face before she smashes her lips together, nodding her head for Lydia to continue.

“I just...I’m a little unsettled. God, this is fucking hard for me.” Lydia mutters, rolling her eyes as a suspicious lump begins to form in her throat.

“Lydia,” Allison soothes, “If I may? You seem like the kind of person who has her life in tight order. I totally get that, I do. But this whole...situation...it’s uncontrollable.”

They sit in somber silence for a moment before Allison whispers, “Do you want to know more about Stiles?”

Lydia didn’t know it was something she wanted until Allison offered.

“I’ve been Stiles’ best friend since we were kids. He’s a good person.”

She looks up from her coffee at Allison’s earnest expression.

“He’s sarcastic and resourceful and wickedly clever. Totally logic-minded, totally a puzzle-solver. He’s also fiercely loyal and protective, almost to a fault. But...you should know...he’s been through a lot. It makes him a little...sharp around the edges.”

Lydia taps her manicured nails on the ceramic of her mug. Was she ready for this conversation? If she asked, she would be willingly trying to understand a stranger that she currently had no desire to know on an intimate level. Did she really want to delve into this?

“...What happened to him?” she whispers.

“It’s more like...what hasn’t happened to him, you know? He lost his mother at a young age. That fucks you up, you know? But...this job that we have for the department, it’s difficult sometimes. You see things. Gruesome things. It’s hard. It changes you over time. I’ve watched him go from this hyperactive, bumbling, happy-go-lucky boy to something much more muted and dangerous. I shouldn’t say too much about it. It’s confidential, and I’m sure it will be brought up eventually. I just shouldn’t be the one to do it, if you know what I mean...” Allison trails off awkwardly, taking a sip of her black coffee.

Lydia’s eyes glaze over, digesting her words, and Allison wishes she could go on. But even though she likes Lydia well enough, she isn’t sure if she should be sharing too much information.

“The thing that’s important,” Allison clears her throat, “is that he’s a good person. And when he cares about someone, it’s forever.”

“Allison,” Lydia murmurs with a shake of her strawberry blonde curls. “I did something really stupid last night.”

Allison stills, waiting for the girl to continue. Lydia sucks in a shaky breath.

“God, it’s so fucking embarrassing. I tried to sleep with him last night.”

Allison’s eyes widen and her dark eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. Lydia waits for a judgemental comment, but it doesn’t come.

“Okay? Lydia, it’s sex, it’s perfectly normal.”

“Trust me, I know. But this wasn’t just about sex. This was trying to get Stiles under my thumb. And I think he knew that. He saw right through it.” Lydia shudders, turning her head to look out the window so Allison won’t notice her cheeks flush.

“Well, Stiles is really smart. And his ability to scrutinize a person is kind of miraculous.”

“Yeah.” Lydia laughs bitterly. “I kind of figured that out.”

“So now you know.”

“Stiles isn’t like all the boys in my past.” Lydia mutters, licking her lips quickly, eyes downcast. “Boys for me have always been...shallow and uncomplicated. Simple. I purposely make it that way. And trust me, I’ve had a lot of practice.”

She’s glad when Allison just grins and accepts her words. It gives her the strength to continue.

“I don’t like that Stiles did that. I don’t like that he saw right through me.”

Allison leans forward and gives her hand a squeeze.

“There’s a first time for everything, right?”

* * *

 **  
** She unlocks the apartment door and moves right to the balcony. He’s sitting out there, just like she knew he would be, scanning the tree line, cigarette to his lips and a book folded on his knee. When she slides the glass door open he jumps nearly a foot in the air and it’s kind of comical. **  
**

“You’re back.” he says, and she takes in how his eyes quickly scan her up and down. Lydia tosses a fresh cigarette pack on his lap.

“This is a dirty habit you know.”

“I swear I’m not a smoker.”

“You literally just took a drag as you said that.”

He smiles a little, and it’s nice to see. He has a nice smile, even though it’s elusive.

“Thanks.” Stiles murmurs, picking up the packet and giving it a little wiggle.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being your enabler, but I made Allison take a pit stop before she dropped me back off. Gesture of goodwill?”

“Gesture of goodwill accepted.”

She moves to take a seat beside him, and they watch the view together.

After a few quiet minutes, she moves her pointer finger to brush the skin on the back of his hand, and the tugging feeling in her chest reappears.

So does his small smile.


	4. The Flaws of Monogamy

Life was so much easier when Stiles didn’t have a 5’3 sexbomb prancing around his apartment.

Long gone are the days he could marathon Star Wars with a hand down his sweatpants in peace and without judgement, or stare at his conspiracy board for hours until his eyes blurred and beer bottles littered his feet. Those days were no more.

Now he was constantly aware of her presence, like a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. His room smells like the sweet honeysuckle bath wash that sits next to his shampoo in the shower. She could be heard in the other room, humming low under her breath, padding barefoot across the floorboards.

He couldn’t escape her, and this morning was no exception.

Stiles turned into the living room, freezing mid yawn. Lydia was stretching, hands palm down on a yoga mat, ass raised in the air.

Now that was quite the Sunrise Salutation.

“Morning!” she says casually, greeting him from between her legs with a smile.

“O-oh yeah, morning.” he stutters, quickly moving to the kitchen cabinets to grab a glass of water.

She rises from her position, sweeping her long red locks into a perfectly messy ponytail, and he looks away again when he sees her rib cage stretch at the movement, chest rising and falling in a patterned sports bra.

He’s known her for approximately less than a week and he’s already seen more of her body than he ever expected to.

Silently, he hands her a cup of water and she gives a small smile in thanks.

“So,” she says after drinking deeply. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“I have to go into the department, complete some paperwork, and then Allison and I have an interrogation scheduled at two, and then we were going to do a few patrols but before that I think we’re going to do some drills and workouts--”

“Are you always this busy?” she cuts him off, and he gives her a once over before shrugging his shoulders.

“I love this town, and I love my job.”

“What does drills and workouts entail?”

“Working out and going to the shooting range.”

“Shooting range?”

The corner of Stiles’ mouth begin to rise. “Here, why don’t I just show you?”

 

She has never liked guns. They’re very loud and very heavy, and her stomach plummets every time she feels the weight of one in her hand. But when Stiles’ lithe fingers move over the metal, constructing and deconstructing like artwork, she pushes through her hesitation. It’s hard not to notice how in control he is. He knows the ins and outs of the weapon, everything from the name to the year, and he gives her the information without a supercilious tone. Lydia wonders if he knows she can feel the energy of the weapon when she holds it, wonders if he knows that she feels a heaviness sink low in her belly. And vaguely she wonders if he himself has felt that same heavy feeling, if he too has held this weapon with shaking hands.   
She wonders if he’s ever fired it on someone.

Beside her, Allison shoots her a wink before letting an arrow fly into a target at the end of the narrow hall in a perfect bullseye. On her other side, Stiles lets a round of bullets unload into the chest of a dummy. Lydia pushes her hearing protection closer to her ears and gives Stiles an uncertain look.

“Guns are loud!” she shouts, and he grins as he puts down his handgun.

“You get used to it. Here.” he moves to her side, and she can feel the tightness of his chest brush her arm.

“When you aim, you want to exhale first. You remember what I taught you?”

Lydia nods.  “Lock, load, don’t put your finger on the trigger unless you’re pulling it.”

“Good girl.”

She dismisses how her stomach flips at his praise, and straightens out her protective eye glasses.

“Raise your arms, keep them straight and strong.” he guides her elbow with whispery soft fingertips. “Just like that, nice. Take off the safety, good Lydia. Keep both eyes open, exhale.”

He puts his palm flat in between her shoulderblades and she hopes he doesn’t notice that her exhale is unsteady.

“When you’re ready.”

She fires.

She’s aiming for the center of the dummy’s chest, but ends up hitting it’s crotch.

“Fuck.” Stiles breathes beside her, and starts to laugh. “Not sure if you were intending to aim there but consider me warned.”

Lydia sighs and turns the safety back on, placing the gun on the table in front of her.

“I suck.”

“You hit the dummy. I would call that a success.”

“Guns are not my forte anyway.”

“What is your forte?” he asks, sending her an amused look.

“My mind.”

She watches as Stiles blinks, his tongue slowly licking his parted lips, eyes wandering over her face before going soft.

“That’s a pretty deadly weapon, Miss Martin.”

* * *

Stiles Stilinski was not her type. He didn’t have the square jaw of a superhero (though his jaw was pleasing, and his prominent cheekbones weren’t too shabby either). He didn’t have biceps the size of her head. He didn’t walk with his nose in the air, and he certainly didn’t try to woo her by invading her personal space, whispering sweet nothings into her ear and promising that she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Stiles Stilinski was average. Barely six feet, lean but athletic, with hands like a piano player. He has dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and a tendency to ramble and use sweeping gestures.

But there is just something about him that Lydia can’t place.

There is a sense of familiarity. She felt it the instant she walked into his apartment and clocked her eyes on him. It was the way they widened, pupils dilating and mouth parting. She had to fight to maintain her composure. Had to fight to pretend it didn’t shake her to her core.

No one ever looked at her the way he did, and she was certain no one ever would again.

* * *

Kira is sweeping on a fresh coat of dark purple nail polish when Lydia flops onto her bed.

“Eeek! Lydia! I could have spilled this!”

“But your fox-like reflexes prevented that, just as I knew they would.” Lydia smirks, brushing a strand of dark hair behind the kitsune’s ear. Kira just rolls her eyes, unable to contain her grin.

It’s the first time she’s been over to Kira’s since permanently moving in with Stiles, and the familiarity of Kira’s bedroom is a welcoming warmth.  

“So, I had a coffee with Allison the other day.”

It comes out casually, just as she had intended. But Lydia observes Kira carefully, gauging her response.

“O-oh yeah?”

“She’s really sweet. She seems pretty sharp, pretty bad ass.”

Kira exhales slowly through her nose, blinking before returning to paint her nails.

“I think you’d like her a lot.”

“I-I’m sure I would…” Kira trails off, placing the brush back into the bottle once more to face Lydia. “But...just...she was Scott’s first love, you know? When we met, he still wasn’t over her. I don’t think he’ll ever be, really. And I’m such a new part of his life, such a n-new part of this pack…”

Lydia sighs, scooping up her friend’s hand to give it a squeeze.

“Kira, you are such a catch. Seriously. I know you’ve yet to DTR with Scott but--”

“DTR?”

“Define The Relationship, babe.”

Kira blushes and lets out a chuckle, making Lydia beam. “Scott likes you. He really, really does. And honestly, it’s a good thing that we’ve got another kick ass lady on our side. Which is why...we’re all going out tonight!”

“WHAT!” Kira admonishes, eyes so wide Lydia considers the possibility that the girl just had a minor coronary.

“Yeah,” she continues, trying her best to be informal, “I went to the shooting range at the department today with Stiles, and we had lunch with Allison and I may have organized something for tonight. Just us girls.”

“Oh my God, Lydia! You know I’m shy!” Kira moans, covering her face with her hands.

Lydia feels guilty for a few seconds before brushing it aside. This will be good for them. And it will be especially good for Kira.

“Kira, all you have to do is be your sweet little self, and she’ll love you. She’s a pretty accepting person.”

“Lydia, do you happen to remember that one time we were trying to stop that omega from its bloody rampage, and Allison and the task force showed up and she put an arrow right between his eyes without a word?”

“She was just following orders.” Lydia says, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyway, what does that arrow have to do with you?”

“What if she finds out I’m...with Scott...and that arrow makes a reappearance?!”

“I highly doubt Allison is that illogical that she’d choose murder over thinking.”

“And how does Stiles feel that you’re suddenly getting chummy with his best friend?”

Lydia gives an unlady-like snort through her nose, rolling her eyes as an answer.

Kira sighs, eyes downcast. “Okay.” she finally concedes with a bite of her lower lip. “We can have this girl night, and we can become the best of friends. But Lydia, are we really going to divulge **_everything_**?” Kira vocalizes, giving Lydia a pointed look that makes Lydia clear her throat, uncomfortable.

“Somethings are best kept a secret.”

 

They arrive exactly at 6:30, and Allison lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Lydia hops out of Kira’s red car in what Allison is starting to understand as typical Lydia garb: a skirt and heels. Allison had only met Kira through their organized meetings, and for someone that appeared pretty timid, Kira’s fashion was anything but. Allison gives her a once over, taking in her hot pink fishnet stockings and comic book print t-shirt. Girl had guts, even if it was buried below the surface.

“Allison!” Lydia exclaims, wrapping her arms around her in an embrace before turning to Kira.

“Allison, Kira, Kira, Allison.”

They smile bashfully at each other in greeting before Lydia hooks her arms through both of their elbows, leading them to the glass window of the movie theater, chattering away.

“I’m so glad we’re finally doing this, honestly I’m just glad that we have more girls in our friend group-- _Hi three for the 6:45 show_ \--and Isaac has been so snarky lately that I can’t deal, even with Scott in the room-- _No please, it’s on me, I mean it!_ \--and of course it’s a little awkward being in the apartment with Stiles, I don’t want to be there all the time, you know?” Lydia babbles, trying to fill the awkward silences with an overload of information while Kira and Allison look at each other under lowered lashes.

They make their way through the theater, picking up a tub of buttered popcorn and Junior Mints before settling in plush seats in a mostly empty theater.

“Lydia, I would never have pegged you for a horror movie person. In fact, remind me why we’re watching a horror movie again? Isn’t real life horrible enough?” Allison smirks, dipping her fingers into the cardboard box of candy.

“Allison, don’t even pretend like you don’t love the adrenaline rush of a good horror movie.” Lydia replies with a smirk.

Truthfully, she would have adored going to a nice, predictable rom-com, but she figured Kira and Allison would bond faster if they were clutching to each other in fear.

She leans over to address Kira on the other side of Allison.

“Kira, did you show Allison your belt yet?”

“Why would I do…?” Kira murmurs, trailing off at the shrewd look Lydia throws her way.

“Oh! Uh yeah, um. My belt is my katana. It’s pretty cool, I guess. At least, Lydia thinks so.” Kira blushes, addressing Allison for the first time.

“The belt you’re wearing right now?” Allison’s eyes widen as Kira gives a nod.

Allison studies her, offering a small smile. “Bad ass.”

This wasn’t going to be so hard.

* * *

Lydia loses track of how many times she shrieks and covers her eyes, or the number of times Allison jumps, spilling popcorn and letting out a laugh at her own ridiculousness. Kira’s knuckles are white on Allison’s elbow, dark hair turning blue from the glow of the screen. When the protagonist edges through the abandoned house, breath harsh and sweat glistening, Lydia, Kira and Allison collectively lean forward in their seats, eyes wide. But of course, it was the ultimate jump scare. Lydia lets out a yelp so loud it’s practically hilarious and the girls all grip each other in fear, laughing and squealing and covering their faces with painted fingers, and it feels good. Really, really good.

* * *

“Did you have fun?”

His voice is gravely and low, and she practically jumps out of her skin.

“Oh shit,” Lydia sucks in a breath, pushing a hand over her heart. “You scared me. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Stiles rises on his elbow, leaning over to turn on the lamp by the couch, washing him in warm yellow light. His hair is disheveled, sticking up in odd angles, eyes hooded with sleep.

“It’s okay, Princess. Jumpy from the movie, huh?”

Lydia lets out a bark of laughter.

“I swear that was the scariest movie I’ve seen in years. Almost as scary as your hair right now.” she quips, and the corner of Stiles’ mouth curls as he runs a hand over his hair, ruffling it up.

“Thanks for sharing your best friend with me.” she says with a genuine smile that makes Stiles pause and slide over, patting the couch next to him.

“She’s pretty good at that,” he says as she plops down next to him. “Being a friend.”

“Well, I’d gladly share my best friend too. Scott’s been dying to have a heart to heart with you.”

“To tell me to take care of his little banshee?” Stiles smirks, bumping his shoulder into hers.

“His little banshee can take care of herself.” she rolls her eyes, but smirks back.

They sit in amicable silence for a minute until he reaches out, brushing the back of her hand with his pointer finger.

It happens again.

The pulling sensation that blooms in her chest. Lydia turns her head to his to find him studying her.

“What do you think that is? Is it a banshee thing?” he inquires in an almost whisper, and she knows what he’s asking without having to elaborate.

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt it before.”

“Never?”

She’s uncertain, not knowing how to respond. The answer feels strange, so she just smiles with closed lips and murmurs something about heading to bed. Stiles stares at her so hard she feels like a masterpiece work of art scrutinized by a professional. Trying to determine if she’s authentic or a fake.

“What?” she snaps with a roll of her eyes, flushing at the bite in her tone. She feels a little guilty that she went from hot to cold so fast, but the way he’s looking at her makes her uneasy.

“Did you have a boyfriend?”

Lydia blinks slowly.

“W-what?”

Stiles shrugs a shoulder, looking down at his finger currently tracing a thread in the couch.

“...Do you have a girlfriend or something?”

“Well I’m marrying you, aren’t I?”

“Congratulations. That was absolutely not the question.”

“Her name was Malia.” he says with a lick of his lips. “I’m not with her anymore because…” Stiles trailed off, motioning between the two of them.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she starts with honesty.

“You didn’t have to break up with her.”

His head shoots up.

“But I’m going to be your husband in a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” Lydia says with a shrug. “So? Our marriage is a political one.”

“So…” Stiles squints acidly, “you’re saying monogamy is not going to be a thing?”

Lydia can’t help the laugh that burns out of her throat.

“Sweetheart, _we’re_ not even a thing. Why should I expect you to be monogamous when we’re not even together?”

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s so angry, but she looks so cold, smiling at him with dead eyes.

“You have a boyfriend.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“But you’ll get one.”

“Probably.”

He shoots up, pacing the back and forth in front of the couch.

“I’m not trying to piss you off here, I’m just being realistic.” Lydia calls to him, admonishingly.

“What gives you the impression that I’m pissed off?” Stiles snaps.

She gives him a pointed look.

“Lydia, look, I just think it’s a little strange that you could think that way.”

“Studies have shown the human species aren’t meant to be monogamous. We’re not penguins for Christ’s sake. We’re like a virus, we’re hardwired to spread our seed as much as we can.”

“Bullshit.”

He’s pissed. He can’t even explain how this conversation went from zero to a hundred in seconds, or why her methodical reasoning that polygamy is applicable to their marriage was making his blood boil.

“Princess, you can’t make that claim unless you yourself are part of the human species.”

That gets her.

He watches as her cheeks begin to pinken, her eyebrows drawing together.

“Really? You’re going to pull that again? I have to tell you that I’m an actual, real life human being?”

“What was his name? Or should I say, what IS his name?”

“Whose?!”

“Your fucking boyfriend!” he shouts, waving a wild arm around, not caring that he sounds like a complete lunatic.

His entire life he had been trained to keep his cool. But Stiles Stilinski was never good at keeping a lid on his emotions. And something about Lydia Martin only heightened them. She was like a match to his kerosene.

Lydia stands, stomping her way to him with a ferocious scowl.

“If you’re asking about my sexual history, yes I’m quite lascivious. I’m just going to throw that out there right now. But I’ve only had a few serious boyfriends. Jackson was my first love. He’s currently in London and out of my life for good. And my last boyfriend is also out of the picture.” she jabs his chest with her finger, and secretly delights in how he rubs at the sore spot with a pucker of his lips.

“Anyway,” she continues, throwing flouncy curls over her shoulder, “This conversation is ridiculous, and I’m done having it with you. Sorry you asked a question and didn’t like my answer.”

“So I can give Malia a call then?” he shouts at her retreating back as she opens the door to disappear into the bedroom.

“If she’ll still have you, I suppose. Until then, enjoy your right hand!”

“And what about you, huh Princess? I bet you couldn’t get that ex-boyfriend back even if you begged!”

“I certainly couldn’t. He’s dead.”

Stiles’ heart stopped.

Lydia watched as the color drained from his face, eyes blinking and lips parting as he sucked in a breath.

“....what.”

“He was murdered. Have a nice night, Stiles Stilinski.”

“Lydia--” he warned, starting to cross the room to get to her, but she held out a hand.

“I’m not mad. But I’m done talking to you about this.”

Stiles froze, hands dropping to his sides.

“...what was his name?”

He watched as emotion flickered across her face. It almost looked like she was tearing up for a second, before an impassive mask was plastered on once more.

“Aiden.” she whispered, shutting the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Your opinions mean the world to me :)
> 
> http://redstringbanshee.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> xx


	5. Fucks and Fugue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your amazing feedback really spurred this chapter!! Thank you so much for your kind words and thoughtful reviews. I want to especially thank LaughingSenselessly, who makes me lose my mind like a crazy fangirl every time she reviews. I love you, seriously you're amazing.  
> And a very special thanks to my tumblr girls, Stivvy (thebeethatcouldhavebeen), you-make-me-wander (Susana), and maybe-we-were-lovers, for being so sweet and kind to me these past few days. I really can't thank you enough!! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter! xx

His phone lights up the darkness of the living room with a shrill buzz, and he’s so tired he has to pick it up twice after it falls through his fingers to the floor.

“Whatdayawant.” he slurs, eyes closed.

“Get off your ass. You need to come here.” Parrish’s voice rings through the line, cold and clear.

“Parrish, what the fuck dude it’s like, three in the goddamn morning.”

“Emergency, Stilinski. Trust me, you’re gonna want to see this.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. The line just cuts and leaves Stiles listening to silence. He lets out a sigh through his nose before viciously scrubbing his face with his hands, sitting up to turn on the lamp.

He’s already shrugged on his deputy jacket and shoved his feet into his boots by the time he thinks of Lydia.

Stiles glances at the closed bedroom door, spinning his car keys anxiously over a finger. He should let her know he’s leaving. He should knock on the door. Maybe just leave a note. But they haven’t really spoken in a week.

Sure he felt horrible about their last fight, but he was a stubborn sonofabitch. Unfortunately, he was learning Lydia had that headstrong streak in her as well. What resulted was a culmination of tense moments as they pass each other, smiles tight, not meeting the others’ gaze. It had been days, and the only words spoken to one another were, “can you pass the salt” and “do you want to shower now, or can I go?”

He was just being a dick when he threatened to call up Malia. Just trying to pull something out of his ass that would puncture through the cool indifference of her elaborate facade.

Though, to have Malia’s body pressed against him would be sure to bring him comfort. Possibly alleviate the anxiety he had been feeling lately. It seemed impossible that a marriage was approaching. Stealthily sneaking up on him, like a predator readying to sink it’s teeth into the flesh of his throat. Crippling him before he even knew what hit him.

He turns and exits the cold apartment without a glance behind him.

* * *

A call to the station informed Stiles that a squad had been dispatched to the Beacon Hills Preserve, having cornered a pack in addition to capturing an unruly omega. He pulls into the wooded alcove, branches crackling under the tires as he parks his jeep near a conglomeration of police vehicles.

Something felt off.

He climbs out of the jeep, scanning, looking for a familiar officer to fill him in before hustling to an ambulance parked near a grouping of trees illuminated by car headlights.

“Stiles!” he hears a call behind him and whips around to see Parrish jogging to meet him.

At the sound of his name in the cold night air, all surrounding officers turn to look at him with an indistinguishable expression on their faces. He feels his uncertainty grow deeper, taking root in the pit of his stomach.

“Parrish. Want to tell me why you woke me up at this godforsaken hour? It’s only an offense, right? We don’t need to get the Argents down here, do we?”

“No,” Parrish shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “No the Argent’s don’t need to be notified.”

“Has the omega been killed?”

“No, we just sedated it. It’s currently in the car, waiting to be transported to it’s cell.”

“And the werewolf pack?”

“All registered...but…”

“Well then what--” Stiles cuts off, immediately silenced as a light from a cop car flashes on a head of copper hair.

He actually does a double take, jaw dropping and chin jutting forward.

“What. The. Fuck.” he hisses, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s stomping over to a curled up Lydia at the base of a tree.

She’s meeting his ferocious stare with one of her own, and he scans her body. She’s scantily clad in a practically see-through nightgown, barefoot, hair tangled and dirt on her knees.

“What the hell are you doing here!?” They both yelp simultaneously.

The similarity would be mortifying if he wasn’t so goddamn angry.

“Lydia darling,” he starts, sickly sweet, “Care to tell me why the FUCK you’re in the middle of the woods, in 54 degree weather, in your nightgown, with no shoes on?!” he screams, not caring if every officer is now standing around, watching the spectacle.

“You’re making a scene.” she groans, rolling her eyes.

“No. I swear to god, you better shut up and give me some answers before I throw you over my shoulder and drag you the fuck home!”

“I can’t shut up and give you answers at the same time, moron!” she shouts, and he practically shakes with rage.

“Are you here with Scott? Are you the pack they’re telling me about? Because Lydia, I swear to god--”

He freezes, finally noticing.

She’s handcuffed.

She’s sitting down in the dirt, shaking from the cold, handcuffed and alone.

He turns slowly to the crowd of police officers observing their interaction with a deadly look on his face.

“Does someone care to tell me why the fuck my wife is handcuffed?”

He says it softly, low and dangerous, and there is palpable dread as they stare at him in stillness.

“I’m not your wife.” she huffs quietly behind him.

He whips back around, and when she sees the look on his face she mashes her lips together, silencing herself.

Stiles grabs her elbow, wrenching her to her feet, and then for the third time that night, he sees something that renders him immobile.

Blood, dark and sticky, is dripping from her ear, pooling in her collarbone, staining the lace at the swell of her breast.

He’s beyond anger, beyond vexation.

He’s fucking going to lose his mind.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he bellows, and points to the blood on her neck, turning to stare at the officers, currently shuffling uncomfortably.

“GET THE FUCKING MEDIC OVER HERE, GET ME A FUCKING BLANKET, AND SOMEONE TELL ME WHY THE FUCK I SHOULDN’T FIRE YOU ALL IMMEDIATELY, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.”

They scatter, and Stiles moves to unlock her handcuffs with a key on his keyring.

“Stiles.” Parrish approaches him, palms raised like he’s trying to calm a rabid animal. “We handcuffed her for a reason.”

“SHUT UP.” Stiles spits, turning his attention to Lydia, his gentle hands a stark contrast to his voice as he brushes her hair from her neck, tilting her jaw up with the tip of his fingers to inspect her injury.

“She was working with the omega. She was with Scott’s pack. They were tracking the omega, and interfered when we tried to take him into custody. It was clearly an obstruction of justice--”

“We’d been tracking that omega for weeks! We know him, we were just trying to get him under control, he didn’t need to be taken into custody, we could handle--”

“Lydia,” Stiles breathed through his nose, silencing her protests. “We are getting you checked by a medic, and then we’re getting in my jeep, and then we’re going home. And perhaps on the way home, you can tell me your reasoning behind this escapade and maybe if it’s good enough, I won’t strangle you with my bare hands.”

He marches her to the ambulance as an EMT shines a flashlight in her eyes, inspecting her ear and wiping the alarmingly dark blood from her milky skin. Stiles scowls by her side with burning eyes, arms crossed over his heaving chest.

After she’s cleared, they offer her a heated blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders.

“Time to go.” Stiles glares, shoving her in the direction of his jeep.

“Stiles--” she tries, but he cuts her off.

“No. Lydia.”

“But Scott, he’s in one of the cars--”

“Lydia, if you say one more word, I am throwing you over my shoulder. That’s a promise.”

She’s quiet.

He walks her to the jeep, helping her into the passenger seat before telling her to wait with a slam of the car door.

“Somebody get me Scott McCall. NOW.”

* * *

Scott McCall is almost six feet of bronze skin, puppy dog eyes, and quizzical brow, and he _actually smiles_ when Stiles wrenches the back door of the cop car open.

Stiles hates him.

“Hey, Stiles, man, what’s up?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, _Scott_. Care to explain to me why I woke up in the middle of the night to a phone call because **my** future wife, **your** friend, is assisting you in an obstruction of justice?!”

Scott’s eyes flutter guiltily.

“Look, we weren’t purposely obstructing. We’d been tracking Stephen--”

“Stephen?”

“The omega. He was first brought to our attention weeks ago. He’s just a scared kid. He can’t control himself yet. He’s harmless.”

“He’s a fucking werewolf.”

“He’s thirteen.”

Stiles pauses, his eyes scanning across Scott’s earnest face.

“...he could have ripped someone’s throat out.”

“But he didn’t. For the past few weeks, we’ve made sure he didn’t. And when the cars showed up, Stephen got scared. We tried to explain to the officers that they just needed to keep their distance and he’d settle, but they didn’t listen to us. They were shooting at him.”

“They were doing their job.”

“We weren’t trying to stop them from doing their jobs. But I will stand in front of Stephen to protect him.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his mouth, rolling his eyes.

“Listen, Scott, you seem like a rational guy despite your crippling hero-complex. But I can’t have you pulling this! These guys, they’re under _my_ jurisdiction. What am I gonna do then, huh? My wife’s pack is disobeying direct orders. How does that look? I mean, it’s a miracle they didn’t mow you all down and why the _hell_ are you looking at me like that?”

Scott is grinning, dimples deepening and brown eyes twinkling.

“You said wife.”

“What. No.”

“Yeah. You said, ‘my wife’s pack.’”

Stiles’ nostrils flare as he glares at the boy in the backseat.

“Shut up. Listen. If you were out here keeping an eye on the omega, care to tell me why Lydia is in nothing but her knickers for fucks sake? She’s not even wearing shoes!”

Scott gives him an odd look.

“I didn’t tell her to come. She arrived about five minutes before your guys showed up.”

“...I don’t get it.”

“Dude, fugue state? She must have sensed something and came to find us.”

“What. the. hell. is. a. fugue. state. I’m seriously losing my patience here.” Stiles growls, gesturing wildly with his hand.

“You run a department specializing in keeping the supernatural in line, and you don’t know what a banshee fugue state is?”

Scott trails off when Stiles eyes start getting dangerously more narrow.

“Okaaaay then...ask Lydia. She’ll be able to explain it more than I ever could, after all.”

“Speaking of Lydia, I need to get back to my jeep, blast the heater, and lock her away in the apartment for the rest of eternity. So, I think we’re done here.”

“You know Lydia can handle herself, right?”

Stiles doesn’t answer. The boys stare at each other for a solid minute before Stiles lets out an exasperated sigh, moving to unlock Scott’s handcuffs.

“Thanks dude.” Scott says appreciatively with a grin, rubbing at his sore wrists and stepping out of the car. “Kira, Isaac, Liam, and a few other pack members are in different cars so…” Scott trails off as Stiles scowls down at him.

“This is your first and last warning, McCall. You cross my orders, I’ll put your pack in the top spot of our Most Wanted list. I don’t care that Lydia’s on it.”

Scott nods his understanding with apologetic eyes. Stiles studies him, breathing heavily.

“Um. I know now might not be a good time to ask, but...are we still on for Saturday? At the bar?”

“...shut up McCall.”

Scott can’t help but give a lopsided smile in response, and it infuriates Stiles to no end.

He turns on his heel, motioning to Scott over his shoulder while bellowing to address the crowd of officers.

“He’s good. Let the pack go, but keep the omega in custody. They can find their own way home. Got a problem with it, meet me tomorrow in my office. And trust me, you will answer to me for tonight. Next time you run into Lydia, don’t think you can pull this shit again. If you witness any suspicious activity involving this pack, I want a phone call, immediately. Good night and fuck off.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t look at her. He keeps his eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Lydia is curled into herself, watching as street lamps whiz by and illuminate empty roads before he pulls into his reserved parking spot in the apartment parking lot.

She can hear the harsh gust of air enter and exit through his nose in the tense silence. She rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but feel a little responsible. Can’t help but feel a little embarrassed about all the fuss made at her expense.

“I guess I should thank you.” she murmurs into the stillness, and she hears the squeak of his leather jacket as he turns to face her.

“What the hell was that tonight?”

She wants to be cantankerous. She wants to toss her hair and ooze a sarcastic response, but she stills when his eyes meet hers. His gaze reminds her of the feeling of his fingers, trailing over her jaw and collarbone, and suddenly she finds herself unable to speak.

“I’m sorry.” she finally whispers. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

She watches as the muscle in his jaw clenches and unclenches before he turns, choosing to look out the windshield instead of her. They’re still for a moment until Stiles sighs and reaches over her lap to the glove compartment, fishing around before pulling out a weathered carton of cigarettes.

“I stress you out that much?” she attempts to be lighthearted, but he glares at her.

“You don’t stress me out, Lydia Martin. You fucking destroy me.”

He lights the stick, taking in a deep puff before slamming his head back on the headrest, cigarette hand out the car window. Lydia watches as the adam's apple in his neck bobs, smoke leisurely filtering out of his parted pink lips.

They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, and when Stiles’ cigarette is almost burned down to the filter, she guides her pointer finger to gently brush the back of his hand on the console.

“No.” he breathes, moving it out of her reach.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Lydia tries not to let it show.

“Look, I told you. I didn’t do it on purpose! It was a fugue state. If you’re going to be with me, you should know that unfortunately, that’s some of the baggage I come with.”

“That’s some pretty heavy baggage, Princess.”

“Yeah well, you’re not the one that has to deal with it first hand.” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.

That silences him, and he brings the cigarette to his lips, inhaling and exhaling smoke before turning to her.

“Are you okay?”

He’s angry with her still, but she can hear the sincerity.

“Fine.” She gestures noncommittally to her ear. “That happens from time to time when I over exert myself.”

“I’m assuming a fugue state is exactly what it sounds like?”

“Yup.” she drawls acidly. “Like sleepwalking. Most of the time I can’t remember what happened until someone tells me. Sometimes I remember but it’s like a dream. When it happens, there’s no stopping it. Doesn’t matter if I’m barefoot. Doesn’t matter if I’m naked. Doesn’t matter if I scream until my ear bleeds and throbs like a son of a bitch. Nope. Doesn’t matter that I have puncture wounds in the soles of my feet from rocks and sticks and it doesn’t matter that I almost lost my toes to frostbite and it doesn’t matter that half of your department saw me naked during my first fugue state when I was sixteen years old. A minor for Christ’s sake.”

She doesn’t know why she’s crying. Maybe she’s frustrated from being yelled at all night like a disobedient child. Maybe she’s angry with herself for feeling so out of control. Maybe it’s the way Stiles is staring at her with a look in his eyes that she can’t understand.

Lydia watches as his gaze drifts to her barefeet, taking in the cuts and the bruises that are now forming dull patches of yellow and purple.

He studies them before drawing his eyes back to her.

Stiles hops out of the car, putting out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and tossing it in the garbage can by the entrance of the complex before rounding to her side of the jeep.

“Come on,” he whispers, opening her door. “Let’s go to bed.”

 

 

 

She pretends like she isn’t in agony, carefully trying her best to mask the wincing that accompany her strides, but he reads her like a book.

“You know, I did threaten to carry you over my shoulder quite a few times tonight.”

“I’ll be damned if I let that happen.”

“We have the penthouse suite.”

“That’s what elevators are for, Stilinski.”

He lets her hobble determinedly to the elevator but stops her halfway through the lobby.

“Okay, no. I was going to let you have your dignity, but you’re getting blood on the floor.”

He doesn’t let her argue, just scoops her bridal style in his arms and crosses swiftly to the metals doors.

Lydia would fight him on it, but she’s really tired. At least, that’s what she tells herself as she rests her head on his shoulder.

Stiles carries her all the way to their apartment, crossing the threshold and entering his bedroom. He pauses when he sees that the glass door leading out to the patio is opened.

“...what are you, some kind of Russian gymnast?”

Lydia actually throws her head back and laughs, and for the first time that night, he smiles down at her before placing her gently in the center of the bed, taking a seat on it’s corner.

She has dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is still wild from the night, and when she gives him a small smile it knocks the breath out of him.

“I’m not going to ask you not to stand up for what you believe in. I’m not going to ask you not to disappear in the middle of the night. But I do want you to know, tonight was horrible. Please don’t do that to me again.” he murmurs before he can stop himself, and she gives him a look that makes him unsettled.

“Why?” she whispers.

He licks his lips, letting out a shaky breath, and lets his finger touch the smooth expanse of her hand in an answer.

The tug pulls so hard his chest, for a second he can’t breathe, before it releases.

She’s gaping at him with eyes so wide and lustrous and careful, and he’s rising from the bed, shutting the door swiftly behind him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you feel! 
> 
> http://redstringbanshee.tumblr.com/
> 
> xx


	6. Can We Please Not Talk About Lydia Martin?

She doesn’t knock and she doesn’t ask if he’s busy. She just unceremoniously opens the door to his office and plops down in the chair in front of his desk and brings up the worst possible thing she could bring up at this moment.

“Soooo,” Allison drawls out. “Lydia Martin.”

He could kill her right about now.

Stiles had woken up at six thirty in the morning to head to the station, which officially meant he was running off a mere two hours of sleep. Not counting the hours he’d gotten when he fell asleep at one in the morning _before_ Parrish’s call. Which, by the way, he doesn’t.

“Can we please, like, not talk about Lydia Martin?” Stiles scowls at her, rubbing a hand over the stubble of his jaw. “Let’s talk about something a little more pleasant. How about the fact that California has a year’s worth of water left. Or the horrors of the patriarchy. Or maybe global warming?”

He can’t help but smile when Allison throws her head back to laugh at his joke, dimples deepening.

“I take it this day has been hell?”

“More so for the seven officers who were given infractions.” Stiles mutters with a sigh, leaning back into his chair, folding his arms.

“I might have heard a few grumblings about that around the department. Jesus. You wrote them all up? Was it really that bad?”

“Allison,” Stiles cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “It was freezing. She was barely clothed, and injured! I mean, did no one there have a freaking brain?! That breaks so many protocols.”

Allison immediately nods in agreement, but drops her gaze to her hands, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Allison--” Stiles warns.

“I heard you were pretty fired up about it. You sure there was no other reason?”

“They deserved to be reprimanded! They were neanderthals with authority and something could have gone seriously wrong! Honestly, it could have been grounds for termination, had I not kept my cool.”

“Since when have you ever kept your cool, Stiles?”

He pauses to consider.

“That time when you always used to make me play Powerpuff Girls instead of Dragonball Z.”

“You were the perfect Blossom!”

“I wanted to be Bubbles.” he growls.

“Everyone wants to be Bubbles!”

“We were each other’s only friends so we only had two-thirds of the Powerpuff Girls! Dragonball Z was so much--you know, forget it.” he puts his hands up defensively and stands, beginning to pace the office.

“You know what I think?” Allison says softly, and Stiles feels his heart begin to hammer.

He cocks his head, keeping his eyes on anything but Allison and sings warningly, “Don’t say it.”

“I think you have a thing for Lydia.”

“Aaaand we’re done here,” Stiles claps, placing a hand on Allison’s shoulder blade and pushing her to the door. “Thank you for visiting, o’ wise one.”

It wasn’t like Lydia Martin wasn’t already his every waking thought, and sometimes his sleeping thoughts as well. It wasn’t like he had to see Lydia Martin illuminated in the early morning and Lydia Martin in the glow of the afternoon and Lydia Martin with moonlight in her eyes. It wasn’t like in a mere _two weeks_ they would sign a piece of paper and be joined in what was likely to be the unholiest matrimony _ever_.

It wasn’t like Lydia Martin was slowly becoming inescapable and it was eating him up inside.

Allison had the decency to stifle her giggling enough to place a reassuring hand on the one currently trying to usher her out of the office.

“Aw come on, I’m just teasing. Sit back down, I really do want to talk to you.”

Stiles droops his shoulders and lets out a groan that Allison is sure lasts for a solid minute before leaning against his desk with crossed arms.

“I went to see her this morning.”

“How are her feet?”

“Better. She’s still attempting to wear heels though.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Now that I know her feet aren’t as banged up as they were last night, and that she is still wearing heels despite my pleas this morning to let them rest, can we officially move on from Lydia Martin?”

She grins like the Chesire Cat and it makes his stomach do flip flops in anticipation.

“Oh,” Allison sighs, teeth flashing and eyebrows waggling. “I think we both know that there’s no moving on from Lydia Martin.”

 

* * *

 

He could spot Scott from a mile away. All he would have to do is follow the radiant beam of sunshine-y warmth currently reaching out to him all the way across the bar. With a sigh, Stiles runs his fingers through his hair, tugging viciously before plastering on a tight lipped smile and moving to greet the alpha.

“Nice bar. Never been here before.” Stiles says, shaking Scott’s hand before sliding to the other side of the plush booth.

Scott looks around the bar in response. It’s clean, coppery and bright. He has suspicions, but doesn’t confirm until he spots a patron drinking an IPA and sporting a handlebar mustache.

“Oh shit. Hipster bar.” Scott grins, nodding in the direction of mustache man.

Stiles blinks. “Wait, you haven’t been here either?”

“Nah. Allison said that you tend to be more comfortable after you nurse a whiskey, so I just picked a bar with good reviews on Yelp.”

_Allison-fucking-Argent._

Scott smiles good naturedly before sliding over a small glass full of amber liquid.

“McCall, are you trying to get me drunk?” Stiles squints at him, but takes a sip anyway.

At least Scott thinks he drinks macho-man drinks. Besides beer and whiskey, two drinking habits he’s unfortunately picked up from his father, that’s about the extent of his manly drink orders. He’d be perfectly content slurping down a pina colada, but no way in hell was he going to divulge that information.

They make small talk for a bit. Scott asks him to describe his job, asks what’s the worst part of it.

“Definitely going to bars with werewolves,” Stiles replies, and Scott laughs so genuine Stiles finds himself smiling in response.

It’s easy to see why his dad trusts Scott and his pack. Scott has been nothing but kind and authentic since he first met Stiles. But Stiles can’t help and bite his cheek, can’t help and study Scott’s mannerisms. He has a hard enough time trusting complete strangers. Let alone strangers that also happen to sprout fur and fangs during full moons.

Besides. No one can possibly be this kind hearted all the time.

It isn’t until he’s finished his whiskey that he notices he’s drinking alone.

“Do you want a beer or something?”

“I’ll take a Coke.”

“I knew it. You are trying to butter me up with drinks!” Stiles smirks, only half joking. “I’ll take a Coke too then.”

“I could drink a beer, but I don’t get drunk.”

“What?”

“It’s a werewolf thing. The alcohol doesn’t affect my system like it would a non-werewolf.”

“You mean a human.”

Scott looks at him curiously before shrugging. “Yeah, sure. A human.”

He takes a bronze hand, pushing up the grey sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal two dark circles wrapping his bicep.

“Tattoos are the same. Because we heal super fast? You don’t even want to know what I had to do to make this tattoo.”

“Tell me.”

“Blowtorch.”

Stiles blanches and Scott throws his head back, howling with laughter.

“On second thought,” Stiles huffs, “I think I’ll take another whiskey.”

 

He’s two whiskeys in before switching to water, deciding to keep his content feeling instead of indulging his anxious one with alcohol. Scott is wolfing (pun intended), down their shared plate of hot wings, coming up for air to grin occasionally at some smart ass comment Stiles makes.

Stiles is surprised to think it, but Scott is easy to talk to. He can see why Lydia considers him to be her best friend. It’s only been an hour but it feels like he’s known Scott his whole life.

“...so then Jackson just takes off to London, poof. Gone. Just like that. He terrorizes Beacon Hills and then hops on a plane forever!”

Stiles rubs his jaw, rolling his eyes. “I remember that kanima nonsense. No offense, but that Jackson guy sounds like a jackass.”

Scott pauses, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I think Lydia would agree with you on that one.”

Alas.

The real reason they’ve agreed to meet up.

Stiles takes a long sip through his straw, waiting for Scott to follow with a line of questioning or some kind of reassurance.

“...she’s a really good girl.”

_Whoop, there it is._

“Sure.” Stiles smirks, crunching the ice down viciously with his straw.

Scott notices.

“You...don’t agree?”

“No, no it’s not that…” he trails off awkwardly. How does one explain Lydia-the-perpetual-thorn-in-his-side-Martin?

“She’s a firecracker.” he concludes.

“Well yeah. That’s Lydia for you. You should have seen her in high school. She ruled the school with an iron fist. She was ruthless. She’s much gentler now. She cares about people. I’m pretty sure if I was on fire, she wouldn’t have spared her spit on me. Or at least, she would pretend to be indifferent.”

Stiles’ brow slowly furrowed as he listened to Scott’s description. Sure Lydia was pretty icy, but she sounded like a real bitch in high school.

“What changed?” he asked.

Scott cleared his throat.

“It’s not like Lydia actually felt that way. She was hiding for a very long time, and she did it out of fear or control, I still can’t tell which. As for what made her change, It’s hard to talk about. It’s sad, you know? Lydia never asked for what happened to her. She was just kind of violently thrusted into this world. Kind of like...kind of like…”

Stiles feels himself pale.

“...kind of like you, Scott?”

Scott looks up at him, brown eyes slightly forlorn.

“Dude, are you okay? Your hands are kind of shaking.”

Stiles choses to ignore this, impatiently motioning for him to continue.

“What happened to me, well, it happened. I was bit. What happened to Lydia should never have to happen to anyone. She’s my best friend, but she’s also a person with her own experiences and her own emotions, you know?”

“You mean she wasn’t born a banshee? What happened to her?” Stiles cracks, staring desperately at the alpha. “I need to know. What happened to her?”

“Y-you don’t remember?”

He feels like he was just catapulted into the cold vacuum of outer space. All crushing pressure and no oxygen.

“W-what? Remember? What the hell am I supposed to remember?!” he’s bordering hysterical, hands waving around, but he can’t find himself caring enough to regain composure.

“Stiles, it’s okay! It’s nothing. I just thought...it doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

“Scott, I swear to God--”

“If Lydia ever wants to talk about it, she’ll be the one to do it. Not me.”

Scott made it sound so final, Stiles knew there’d be no further discussion. He slumps against the seat, rubbing his palm anxiously across his lips.

Stiles wracked his brain, mind moving a mile a minute. Did he have something to do with Lydia’s banshee abilities? Did he have anything to do with Lydia?

“Hey,” Scott soothes, and reaches out to place his hand on top of Stiles. Stiles isn’t sure what’s more surprising: the fact that he doesn’t move it away, or the fact that he’s comforted by the gesture.

“Don’t worry dude. Everything’s all good now! She’s back on top, and she’s got a fiance who cares about her.”

Stiles is so busy balking at the word, ‘fiance’ he forgets his previous fear.

“W-well...I don’t want her to die or anything…” he trails off, moving his hand from under Scott’s awkwardly.

Scott just rolls his eyes and snickers.

“Okay Stiles. Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment is silent when he unlocks the front door.

“Lydia?” he calls into the empty space.

No answer.

It’s literally not a big deal at all, he tells himself. But he’s an anxious person, always has been. Probably always will be. So when he’s greeted with silence, his knuckles turn white on the doorknob.

He crosses to the bedroom, opening the door and quickly scanning before noticing the adjoining bathroom door is closed.

He knocks, and her muffled voice calls out for him to enter.

He’s an idiot.

Stiles lets out a breath, shaking his head at his absurdity.

She’s laying down in the bathtub, hair piled on top of her head, a few fiery tendrils falling down in curls to frame her face. She gives him a tight lipped smile when he meets her eyes.

“S-sorry. Just wanted to let you know I’m home.” he stammers. But she rolls her eyes and beckons him forward.

Stiles raises his eyebrows, but slowly moves to sit on the lid of the toilet, resting his elbows on his knees before facing her expectantly.

“You know Princess, I really admire your confidence.” he squints, a sly smile on his lips.

“Don’t be such a prude. I’m completely covered by bubbles here, you can’t see anything.” Lydia huffs, raising a hand full of lavender scented bubbles and blowing the cloud off her palm so it clings to his pants.

He smiles.

“How was Scott?”

“He’s good. Scott’s a pretty decent guy.”

“Damn right.” Lydia nods fiercely, and for just about the millionth time, he observes how beautiful she really is.

Stiles’ eyes flit across her face, taking in her emerald eyes. The way her lashes are so long they brush the underside of her eyebrows. The creamy skin of her swan-like neck. The way when she presses the tip of her pink tongue to her plush lower lip, those dimples appear in her cheeks.

Something had happened to her. Something bad, and there was a possibility that he was a contributing factor.

“What?” Lydia asks, shaking him out of his introspection.

“What-what?”

A quick burst of air shoots through her nose as she silently laughs. “You’re eyebrows are all scrunched up. I mean, I know that’s a permanent fixture for your face, but you look particularly perturbed.”

He doesn’t know what to say or where to begin, so he starts with honesty.

“I was just thinking...I don’t really know you. And you don’t really know me.”

Now it’s Lydia’s turn to study him.

They sit in silence for a few seconds before she grins.

“We don’t know each other, and yet here I am, naked in your bathtub!”

He’s going to ignore that.

“You look like a mermaid.”

“Eight year old Lydia would kiss you for that.”

He’s going to ignore that too.

“Come here.” he croaks, and she understands what he’s asking.

She lets her chin drop a little so the lower half of her face is submerged, looking at him from beneath her lowered brow. He smirks and motions his fingers to her, coaxingly.

Lydia draws a shapely leg from beneath the bubbled surface of the water, letting it drip for a bit before leaning it over the side of the tub, placing her foot in his lap.

Stiles gently lifts and tilts it every which way, inspecting the bruises, now a dull yellow, and the cuts which thankfully are shallow.

“See? Much better. I told you.”

He glares at her.

“A little birdie visited my office this afternoon and told me you were wearing heels.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

“Perchance, is this the same little birdie that visited me this morning for coffee? The same little birdie that came over to make sure I was alright after she heard mumblings of last night’s previous escapades? Could this possibly be the same little birdie that was told by her best friend to check up on the crazy banshee girl and make sure she’s doing alright?”

Busted.

“Hey. I didn’t tell her to check up on the crazy banshee girl,” Stiles says, tongue darting out briefly to wet his lips. Lydia’s eyes drop down to his mouth and shoot back to his eyes so quickly he wasn’t even sure it happened.

“Oh no?” she inquires ruefully.

“Of course not!” Stiles declares, placing his hand over his heart. “I just told her to check up on the banshee girl!”

That earns him a half-hearted splash of bathwater.

"Anyway, she would have came to check up on you regardless." he says after a small silence.

She looks at him intensely before giving a gentle smile.

"I know." 

 

It isn’t until they’re both sitting on the balcony, watching the sun go down that she brings up the party.

She’s makeup free, hair wet and brushed back from her face, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe.

Stiles tries his best not to stare, focusing instead on the sunset (much less aesthetically pleasing), and how the cigarette between his fingers quivers less when she’s around, despite his heartbeat quickening.

Apparently an old high school friend of Lydia’s was arranging a casual soiree of sorts, if soiree meant total-rager and casual meant jam-packed with people.

“Come on. My pack is going, and Allison said she’d go too!” Lydia coaxes, purposefully sticking out her deliciously pink lower lip.

She’s going to be the death of him.

Stiles watches her carefully, taking a drag of his cigarette while keeping his eyes locked on hers.

“What incentive is there for me to be at this party?”

Lydia pretends to consider for a moment. “Booze, pretty girls, opportunity to make fun of people? Oh yeah, and a little something called ‘fun.’ Ever heard of it?”

“Fun?” Stiles echoes, confusion etching in his features. “Fee-uhn? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”

She beams and he grins back.

“So I take it you’ll go?”

“Are you going to ask me for a ride regardless of my answer?”

“Yup.”

She smiles and reaches over his lap, dragging the cigarette from between his middle and pointer finger before leaning in and wrapping her strawberry lips around the filter.

He’s going to fucking pass out.

Lydia inhales, and through his stupidly dazed vision, Stiles notices she does it properly. First breathing in, then breathing it in again, only deeper.

She hands him back his cigarette, blowing smoky kisses into the tree line before turning to grin at his dumbfounded look.

“This really is a bad habit, you know.”

“You’re endlessly mystifying.” he murmurs hoarsely.

She likes the sound of that.

“We don’t know each other, right? Come to the party and you’ll find out more about me.”

 

Two weeks until Lydia Martin would be eternally written into his history.

At least things would never get boring.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo excited to write that party scene ;)
> 
> SEND ME DRABBLES, PROMPTS, YOUR FEELINGS ABOUT TEENWOLF/STYDIA IN GENERAL, I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU!
> 
> http://redstringbanshee.tumblr.com/
> 
> xx


	7. Two Double Cheeseburgers, Two Chocolate Shakes, Multiple Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: recreational marijuana, alcohol, drinking games, slut-shaming, violence

He drops her off in a random, empty parking lot at two in the afternoon with a plate full of peanut butter cookies and picks her up from the same parking lot at five, the plate of cookies now a plate of crumbs.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, hoisting herself into the passenger seat of his jeep. “Sorry. I know you had a meeting, but Kira has a flat tire…”

Stiles doesn’t buy it.

He doesn’t doubt that Kira ran into car trouble. The kitsune would never purposely ditch Lydia, especially when Lydia specifically asked her for a ride back to the apartment after she did...whatever business she needed to do. He just doesn’t buy...her.

Lydia is pointedly looking everywhere but at him. Brushing invisible wrinkles from her floral skirt, methodically pulling apart the plastic wrap, speckled with cookie crumbs, clinging to its own surface. Flipping down the visor to open the mirror and inspect her lipstick. She moves quickly and deliberately.

He gives her a once over, but eventually decides to say nothing.

….Everyone is entitled to a secret.

 

* * *

 

His secret is that he has always wanted this.

He made Allison pretend to walk down the aisle with him until they reached the age where they became self aware and the ‘game’ became noticeably uncomfortable. He poured over photo album after photo album of his father in a tux and his mother in a white gown. When he was twelve he finally came to the conclusion that he wanted four children, no more, no less. He murmured, ‘I do,’ and practiced the perfect kiss on his pillow.

She would be pretty and strong, like Allison, who wasn’t afraid to catch frogs and didn’t cry when she scraped her knee but loved the color pink and painted her nails lime green. She would be smart, like his dad, who was an excellent listener and could solve any puzzle and taught Stiles the game of chess. And she would be like his mother, the good parts. The parts where her voice was soothing and her arms were warm when they wrapped around his shoulders, and her hair smelled nice.

Heather was pretty like Allison, but with long blonde hair, blue eyes and rounder cheeks. Her arms were warm around his shoulders. Her legs were warm as well, wrapped around his waist. She was smart, despite being a virgin, because she quickly found a new angle that made them moan simultaneously as he hit a particular spot inside of her over and over.

Cora was pretty, with nice skin and silky-soft brown tresses. She was strong, because she pinned him down and rode him with wild abandon and he could be rough with her and she enjoyed it. She was warm when dismounted his lap and kissed his temple goodbye.

Malia was smart, but not about chess or puzzles. Malia was smart because she never forgot who came first; _Herself_.   
Malia was pretty because her legs were long and tan and her eyebrows were dark and because she believed in herself. Malia was warm because she cared about him, and she occasionally told him so.

There had been others, but they were easily forgettable, because their traits were not familiar in the way he so desperately craved.

And then she came along.

She is smart.

She has an IQ over 170, a tendency to call things by their scientific name, and translates ancient texts in Archaic Latin for fun. She is much smarter than he is, which is both exciting and alarming, because until she arrived, that had not yet happened.

She is strong.

She was put together and shattered and put together again. She has bruises on her feet and fire in her eyes. She chases down omegas and yells at authority figures and stands up for what she believes in. She lets the voices in, and keeps the voices out. She runs with wolves.

She is blatantly beautiful.

….But she is cold.

Though at times, when she smiles, or when the tip of her finger brushes his hand, it doesn’t quite feel that way.

He has always wanted it.

Just not in this way. Just not like this.

* * *

It’s hard to be mad at Kira when she’s so adorable. Lydia watches as she grins, squirting the ketchup in a zigzag motion all over the shared plate of fries.

“You realize only monsters do that, right?” Lydia chastises good naturedly, bringing a fry to her lips. “Kira, be a normal human being and squirt ketchup on the side of the plate like the rest of the world!”

Kira only laughs, licking ketchup off her thumb as Allison mockingly shakes a finger at her.

Stiles had dropped Lydia back off at the apartment before returning to the station, and Allison had called immediately after. A plan was formulated, and Kira was picked up. She had apologized so genuinely and relentlessly for stranding Lydia that by the time they arrived at their destination, _Lydia_ was the one feeling guilty.

A mile down the road and a plate of fries later, Lydia decided she was okay if they didn’t move from the booth of the local 24-hour diner until sunrise as long as Kira kept highjacking the ketchup, and Allison kept laughing so hard her eyes squeezed shut.

“Okay,” Allison declares, scooping a fry off the plate. “This much ketchup is too reminiscent of that movie we watched. Honestly, this plate looks like a massacre.”

“A french fry massacre!” Lydia adds, punctuating the air with a fry.

“All I hear is a bunch of ketchup haters.” Kira grins mischievously.

“Speaking of haters,” Allison continues conversationally, “Did Stiles agree to come to the party?”

Lydia rolls her eyes at the direction of the conversation but nods, a smile fighting its way across her lips. Kira and Allison shoot each other a look under their eyelashes before Kira takes a particularly interesting bite of her french fry.

Oh boy. Why did she introduce these two to each other again?

“Are you seriously going to do this right now?” Lydia raises her eyebrows defiantly at their silent communication, and they both blush appropriately, but not before giving each other another grinning look.

Allison is the first to clear her throat and ask, “You’re a week and a half away from the wedding. How are you feeling?”

Lydia bites into the flesh of her lower lip, considering.

“I...feel like…”

They’re both staring at her with hyper-focused eyes.

“I feel like...I feel like...I feel like if we’re going to go down this rabbit hole of a conversation, I need a chocolate milkshake first.”

They both laugh, satisfied despite her lack of a sincere answer, and Kira _actually flags down the waiter to ask for a round of chocolate milkshakes._

Lydia would be furious if she wasn’t laughing so hard.

An hour later they were still hounding her about her relationship with Stiles.

“You know what you need to do?” Kira mumbles after dipping a fry in the sweet shake. “You need to look totally _bangable_ at this party.”

“When does she ever not look bangable?” Allison asks, shooting her a wink and Lydia mockingly flips her hair over her shoulder, smirking at the compliment.

“And what, per se, would be the point of looking more bangable than usual at this party? Please don’t tell me it would be for Stiles’ benefit.”

“He is your husband.”

“Not yet he’s not!” Lydia scoffs. “Besides...things with us are a little...tense at times.”

“Because of all the sexual tension.” Allison declares, wiggling her eyebrows.

Well. She wasn’t too far off.

“We really don’t talk about the future, you know? We don’t talk about how we’re going live through this. He sleeps on the couch, our conversations usually last about five minutes. Once he got mad at me for suggesting that we would sleep with other people.”

They stared at her.

“What.”

“You’re not actually going to sleep with other people, are you?!” Kira admonishes, eyes so wide Lydia thinks they might pop out of her head.

“Is that really so bad? We’re going to be married for the rest of our lives. And we didn’t choose it, so it might as well be enjoyable!”

“You know what would make it enjoyable? HAVING SEX WITH STILES.” Allison croons so loudly the elderly couple in the booth behind her whip their heads around, scandalized.

Kira mouths _‘sorry’_ to them, wincing. Lydia just smirks.

“Can you imagine?” Kira adds once the flush in her cheeks have faded. “The roleplay would be out of this world.”

“Oooh! Deputy Stilinski! I’ve been a _very_ naughty girl!” Allison chimes in.

“Oh my god, does he have a pair of handcuffs?!” Kira squeals.

“Isn’t it a little weird to be talking about your best friend’s sex life?” Lydia squints at Allison. “Besides. I think Stiles will be too occupied having sex with his ex-girlfriend to entertain me.”

Allison’s brows scrunch.

“Wait, what? Malia? Why would he be having sex with Malia?”

Two things very curious happen very fast.

One, Kira nearly chokes on her french fry, and two, she begins to blush furiously.

“Malia who?!” Kira coughs out, eyebrows at her hairline.

“Tate. Malia Tate.” Allison answers, looking worriedly at Lydia, clearly as lost as Lydia feels.

Lydia didn’t think Kira could blush anymore than she already was, but she was wrong. Kira was practically a tomato.

“W-why would he be having sex with Malia?”

“Well, he told me he would hit up his ex to have sex. I mean, he totally could. He said it maliciously, but I’m not going to hold it against him when he does.” Lydia says, dismissively waving her hand. Was Kira disconcerted about Malia on Lydia’s behalf?

“Malia.” Kira states again.

“Yeah.”

“Malia Tate.”

“....yeah, Kira, what is it?” Allison asks, now genuinely concerned.

Kira brushes her dark hair behind her ears, chewing anxiously on her lower lip.

“Malia...Malia’s in Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah, I mean I only met the girl once or twice.” Allison nods, looking at her to continue.

It hits Lydia.

“Oh my God. Kira.”

“What!” Allison cries out, looking back and forth between the two girls. “What! Clue me in! What!”

Kira groans and flops her head down onto the table with a solid _thump_. She says something but it’s muffled.

“WHAT!” Allison almost shrieks, and Kira’s head lifts up, shouting, “I USED TO DATE MALIA!”

There is a silence as simultaneous, evil grins stretch over Allison and Lydia’s faces.

“Tell. Me. Everything.” Lydia practically purrs.

Kira is clearly flustered but she rolls her eyes and begins upon Lydia’s request.

“Malia and I went to the same high school in San Francisco before I moved to Beacon Hills. She was my high school sweetheart, actually. Last I heard, she left my hometown. She was trying to find her mother, The Desert Wolf.”

Again, a palpable silence stretches, but this time it is different.

“Wolf.” Allison parrots.

“Yeah. The Desert Wolf. Malia’s mom. Look I haven’t seen her in a long time, I had no idea--”

“Malia’s mother is a wolf.”

“Coyote, technically. A desert wolf is another name for a coyote. You know, like Malia is.”

Lydia turns to Allison, understanding quickly falling into place like missing puzzle pieces.

“Stiles doesn’t know does he? He doesn't know his ex is a werecoyote.”

Allison shakes her head, eyes glazed in stupor.

* * *

**  
**  


They all decide to get ready at Lydia’s place, mostly because she has all the hookups. Expensive makeup, designer shoes, an endless variety of silky lotions, and at least five tubs of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer. But also partly because Lydia expressed her concern that if she didn’t catch a ride with Stiles to the party he would be a no-show.

Stiles is still at the station when they arrive, and Lydia shoots him a text to let him know they’ve temporarily commandeered the apartment.

“He’s gonna be delighted.” she smirks, wiggling her phone at Allison and Kira so they see her text.

They decide to start with icecream. They each grab a cardboard container and make their way to the bedroom.

“So this is it huh? Where all the magic happens?” Kira jokes good naturedly. Lydia rolls her eyes but doesn’t correct her. Instead she pulls out a few issues of Vogue and scatters them across the comforter as Kira stretches over the plush cushions, beginning to leisurely flip through the glossy pages.

“Whoa.”

Lydia turns at the sound of Allison’s hushed surprise. She’s looking into the closet with an almost confused look on her face.

“Allison?”

“Sorry...it’s just...so weird. Your clothes are together….”

Lydia doesn’t know what to say. She follows Allison’s gaze. Stiles’ hoodies and button downs overshadowed by her frilly dresses. His Adidas perfectly aligned next to her Jimmy Choos.

“Sorry...sorry it just kind of hit me, you know?”

Allison tears her eyes away from the doorway, turning to give Lydia a shaky grin.

“It’s okay. It’s weird. No doubt about that.” Lydia muses.

Lydia waltzes over to the closet and softly touches the sleeve of a red hoodie.

“It still smells like him, just so you know.”

“Pine-scented men’s deodorant and spearmint gum?” Allison chuckles, trying to feign casual. Lydia nods, reaching out to grab her hand.

“You’re going to be good for him, you know.” Allison murmurs. “When we were little, he was all limbs and mouth. Constantly moving and chattering and flailing. Remember when I said something happened to him? Something that made him change?”

Lydia felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest, and stood up a little straighter.

“...He was adrift for a very, very long time. He’s still recovering, you know? You’ll see it. It will happen eventually and then you’ll understand.”

She wanted to know. She wanted to pry it out of Allison. Wanted to piece together the puzzle that was Stiles Stilinski, wanted to understand him.

“Anyway,” Allison scoffed, clearing her throat and forcing a smile on her lips. “I just wanted to tell you that I see him improving. He’s been talking more in the past few weeks than I’ve heard all year. And he smiles more...I don’t know. I can’t help but think it’s because of you.”

**  
**  


 

Stiles arrives just as Lydia finishes curling Allison’s hair. He slouches, resting his shoulder against the bedroom door frame, and gives Lydia a lazy smirk.

“Stiles!” Allison beams, and Kira looks up her nails to smile a hello.

“How was work?” Lydia asks, taking his hand and moving him to the closet. She pulls about five different shirts out before he has the chance to answer.

Allison quietly observes, studying how Stiles laughs at the way Lydia holds up button downs to his frame before shaking her head and moving onto the next option.

Yeah.

This was going to work.

 

* * *

 

They pile into the car, Lydia cranks the radio while shouting directions to her friend’s house, and after about fifteen minutes they arrive to a party so obvious Stiles could have found it about two miles out.

The two story house already has red solo cups littering the lawn, the music is thumping so loud Stiles can feel it reverberate through the steering wheel, and there’s a girl already hysterically crying as her friends comfort her with words like, _‘Mark is a jerk anyway! You don’t need him.’_

“This is going to be sloppy.” Kira says, eyes wide.

“Danny’s parties always are!” Lydia grins mischievously. “That’s why they’re famous in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles parks the car and they step inside, meandering their way through the crowds in search of drinks. Lydia leads the way and Stiles can’t help but notice as people do a double take, looking at her incredulously.  

_“Lydia Martin is here.”_

He hears a girl whisper to her friend and they both blush when they notice Stiles heard.

 

They find the drinks relatively easy without losing one another, and Lydia leans over the bar to hand Stiles a cold beer before beginning to concoct some fruity drinks for Allison and Kira.

“Lydia!”

Warm caramel arms wrap around her middle, and Lydia squeals as she turns to the dimpled stranger currently grinning down at her.

“Danny! Oh my god, it’s been too long!”

“You’re telling me. I missed my Queen Bee. How’s it going babe?”

They kiss each other’s cheeks before Lydia turns and introduces him to the group.

“Danny, you already know Kira, this is Allison and Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his hand politely, pretending like he wasn’t just grinding his teeth.

Danny greets them and gives Kira a wink, and tells her that Scott is out back with Isaac.

Lydia freezes.

The Scott situation still hasn’t been mullified between Kira and Allison. Kira’s eyes go big, and Lydia watches the tip of her ears turn scarlet. This is bad. She looks to Allison, but Allison has already crafted a mask, cool impassivity plastered on her features.

“Oh-okay I’m gonna…” Kira trails off, breaking apart from the group to search out her boyfriend.

“Sooo…” Danny smacks his lips, clearly aware that he just dropped a bomb that wasn’t ready to be dropped.

“Stiles and Allison? Wait, haven’t I seen you two before? Did you go to BHHS?”

“Nah. We were both homeschooled. We kind of had this rigorous training program.” Stiles says casually, taking a swig of his beer.

“No,” Danny shakes his head, “I could have sworn I saw you at a few of my parties during high school.”

“Actually,” Allison speaks up, the foggy haze fading from her eyes, “Stiles, I think we might have crashed a party here before. We were each other’s only friends, so we’d try to go to the occasional high school party for some normalcy.”

“Well come on then! Let me reintroduce you.” Danny grins, and begins to take them on a tour of the house.

“Back patio, kitchen/bar...drinking games are in the living room,” he points out. “Be sure to make certain Lydia weasels her way over there tonight.” Danny gives Stiles a nudge.

“And why is that?” Stiles says in a clipped voice.

If Danny notices he pretends not to.

“Lydia loves drinking games. I throw awesome parties. But when we were in high school, Lydia Martin’s parties reigned supreme.”

Lydia preens and mockingly tosses her hair over her exposed shoulder.

“Ah, and here’s my boyfriend!” Danny smiles as a muscled guy makes his way to them, and Danny gives him a peck on the lips before introducing him.

For the first time that night, Lydia sees Stiles’ shoulders loosen, and he grins widely when he shakes Danny’s boyfriend’s hand.

 

They start off playing Beer Pong, Danny and Lydia against Stiles and Allison, who whoop their asses respectfully so, and then again at Flip Cup. Lydia is the champion at Suck and Blow though.

“It’s not fair.” Stiles speaks in her ear to be heard over the pounding bassline, and she feels slightly dizzy.

“Stilinski, you’ve creamed me two drinking games in a row, and I’m the expert when it comes to parties. Pray tell, how is that not fair?!”

“You have an unfair advantage.”

She raises a brow at him, smirking. Stiles grins at her before slowly tracing his lithe fingers over her chin, cupping her jaw. He runs his thumb over her slightly parted lips before giving them a tug.

“These.” he whispers hoarsely.

One bad drinking game leads to another, they find a mixed group of both strangers and friends sitting in a circle, and suddenly Lydia has five fingers in the air, her eyelids feel heavy, and there is a dangerous thumping in her chest.

When she shoots a look to Stiles, she can tell he’s feeling it too.

“Seriously? Never Have I Ever? I feel like I’m in highschool again.” Isaac bemoans half-heartedly.

“Only you were never at any parties because you never got invited.” Lydia quips, but it’s playful and he raises the lip of his bottle in her direction as if to say, _touche._

The game starts off like how it always does. Everyone tries to make it interesting, ‘Never have I ever been skydiving’...’Never have I ever sang in public’... but after about three declarations of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ it gets sexual.

Danny is the first to kick it off.

“Never have I ever had sex with a stranger.”

They all smirk. It was fruitless to pretend like this wasn’t how the game was supposed to be played. Pointless to pretend like they weren’t all young and drunk and lusty. Senseless to pretend like they were above talking about sex, above shooting a lowered glance at their crush’s fingers to gather details about their secret sexual escapades.

Lydia’s five fingers remain in the air. As do Stiles’.

“Lydia, you’ve never had sex with a stranger?” Danny asks with a suspicious quirk of his lips.

Lydia rolls her eyes and takes a swig of her drink, regardless of her fingers still remaining up.

“I’ve always known their names, Danny. Besides, ever hear of a little something called _Treponema Pallidum? Chlamydia Trachomatis? Neisseria Gonorrhoeae?_ I may be libidinous but I’m a safety girl.”

She flushes at her bad habit of spewing scientific names when she’s a little sloshed, but it’s satisfying to watch everyone study her intriguingly, eyebrows raising in surprise on some of the faces of people she’d never been introduced to.

When Mason smiles and says he’s never had a threesome, Lydia’s thumb falls back into her palm.

Stiles is looking at her.

“Lydia?” Mason asks.

Why is everyone so interested in her sex life?

“This is Never Have I Ever, not ‘Let’s Hear Lydia’s Sexual History.’”

“Come on. You’re the only one here who’s had a threesome! We’re a group of curious people. What was it like?”

“No.”

“Come on. That’s like, everyone’s fantasy! Inquiring minds want to know.”

Mason says it so genuine and friendly that Lydia can’t help but grin.

“You know, some people consider sex a very personal experience.”

“Lydia!”

She bites her lip, considering.

“....it’s satisfying. Everyone should try it at least once. But like...other than that…” she shrugs her shoulders as if to say she could take it or leave it.

“Was it you and two guys, or another girl and a guy? Or maybe all girls?!” a stranger suddenly stammers, almost breathless. Stiles stares at him so hard the subject is promptly changed. Lydia tries not to think about how Stiles is now _chugging_ his beer, even though all his fingers are still up.

Allison is next.

“Never have I ever...kissed a girl.”

Everyone sputters their disbelief.

“Never? Allison, not even like, on a dare?” Isaac asks, eyebrows at his hairline. “That’s like, the first taboo statement that every girl makes!”

Allison is laughing, but there is a blush blooming on her cheekbones.

“You need to right that. Now.” Danny pushes, and his eyes fall expectantly on Lydia.

“No! Come on!” she cries out. “What is with everybody up my ass tonight?!”

“Are you telling me you don’t want to kiss Allison?” Danny says coyly.

Allison and Lydia turn to look at each other, smirking and rolling their eyes.

“I’m not fucking blind. I know my friend is gorgeous.”

“Yeah, but that wasn’t the question though.”

Stiles is still beside her. He’s been eerily quiet this entire game.

“You just want to see two girls make out. It’s such a cliche!”

She’s busy fighting it, but when Allison gently tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, she turns with an arched brow.

“It would be nice to know what it feels like.”

The look on Allison’s face is so smug and confident that Lydia feels herself mimicking.

If they were going to play this game, they were going to make it good.

“Do you really want this?” Lydia questions, and when Allison says yes, Lydia can tell she really, truly means it.

“You want me to kiss you right now? Even in front of all these horny boys?” she shoots them all a playfully dirty look, narrowed eyes and pouty lips.

“It’s okay to be a cliche every once in awhile.”

“Mmm,” Lydia whispers slowly leaning in. She can feel the group follow her lead, all stretching forward with big eyes, straining to hear Lydia over the thumping heartbeat of the music. “And we are friends. And you are really fucking pretty. Kind of takes away the banality.”

“Indeed.”

“Are you ready?” Lydia breathes onto Allison’s flushed lips, because Lydia is so, so ready, but this is familiar territory. For Allison, it’s completely new.

But Allison’s mouth quirks, and she nods, fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of Lydia’s neck, long lashes fluttering shut.

They start with barely-there kisses, butterfly light and sweet. Her lips are so soft and warm, and Lydia works them gently, slowly, sensually under her own. Lydia is reminded why she enjoys kissing girls. There is something so pure about it.

She takes it in, savors it slowly, and she hears the cheers of their growing audience even over the rushing noise of her own bloodstream thudding in her ears.

_Stiles._

The thought of Stiles watching her make out with his best friend causes Lydia’s heart to stutter in her chest, her stomach doing flip-flops.

Gently, achingly slow, she pulls back to run her tongue along Allison’s bottom lip, and even though she thought the sounds of approval from onlookers couldn’t get any louder, she was wrong. Allison grins, opening her mouth wider for entrance, and Lydia marvels over the softness of Allison’s tongue against her own. Velvety and warm, lips so smooth. Thin, pale fingers gently playing across her collarbone.

Lydia understands why Scott was in love with her.

She could kiss Allison for hours. But after a solid few minutes, she dips her head to suck at the pulse under Allison’s jaw and finally pulls back. She takes her in, noticing how Allison’s vision is glassy and slow. Lydia knows her eyes must look the same. She smiles widely and Allison languidly grins back, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink.

“That was fun.”

Lydia hums in agreement and they both giggle, unable to help themselves, and Lydia’s suddenly rushed with emotion. So thankful she’s met the girl who is slowly becoming the best friend she’s ever known. Thank God for Allison Argent. Thank-fucking-God.

Isaac is working his jaw, looking like a fish out of water. Danny is grinning, wiggling his eyebrows enthusiastically.

Stiles….

Lydia turns to her right, but Stiles is gone.

 

* * *

She finds him an hour later outside and alone, eyes unfocused, rosy blotches under his high cheekbones. He grins lazily as she approaches, and it makes her let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Hey you. How’s my Princess?” he murmurs, and Lydia’s eyes drop to his lips, flushed and shiny with his spit.

“Hey Stiles. Didn’t want to stick around for the rest of ‘Never Have I Ever,’ huh?”

“I finished my beer and needed a refill. Also I needed to get loosey goosey.”

The smell finally hits her, and she looks down at the joint between his thumb and pointer finger.

When she looks back up at him, she notices the redness in his eyes.

“Loosey goosey, huh? Tsk tsk. Deputy Stilinski, I do believe you’re misbehaving.”

“Come misbehave with me.” he mumbles, reaching out to tangle his long fingers with her own, pulling her to sit beside him. She allows him to guide her down, smiling through heavy lidded eyes.

“This is prescription, anyway.” Stiles says nonchalantly, leaning forward to cup his hand and light the tip of the blunt.

Lydia can deduce, but doesn’t bother to ask what it’s prescription for. She’s too enamoured at the lighter in his hand, watching as his thumb clicks down repeatedly before the spark bursts into a flame. He puffs twice, letting the joint glow to life.

Stiles inhales deep before dropping his head back. Lydia watches his neck stretch, long and white, a vein climbing upwards, pulsing prominently. She watches as his adam’s apple bobs, his jaw muscling before dropping, letting the smoke mingle with the night sky before turning to her.

His hair is mussed up, like he’d been pulling at it. His lips are swollen. His amber eyes look so, so dazed.

Stiles studies her right back, a lazy smile twisting on his mouth.

“Want some?”

“Mmhmm.” Lydia moans, lashes fluttering almost sleepily.

Stiles brings the rolled joint back up to his mouth, inhaling before slowly leaning in. Lydia follows his lead, edging forward until their eyes lock, noses almost bumping.

Stiles breathes out harshly, letting out the smoke he held in his mouth. Lydia sucks it in, letting it fill her lungs, deep and burning, watching as Stiles’ pupils dilate.

“You took off.”

“You’re so pretty, baby.”

“You left.”

“....Yes.”

“Why. Didn’t enjoy the show?”

Stiles brings his occupied hand up to her mouth, and Lydia wraps her fingers gently around his wrist, holding as she coaxes smoke from the joint.

“I wouldn’t say that, necessarily.” he says after she’s exhaled. “Is this how you knew how to properly smoke my cigarette? Practice from parties?”

“Yeah.”

She coughs, and he quickly swipes the underside of her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb until the hacking subsides.

“So where does the threesome come into play?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Her eyes feel so heavy.

“Maybe I’ll tell you at the next party.”

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn’t know where Danny is, or Allison, and she hasn’t seen much of her pack for a while. All she knows is that her arms are wrapped around Stiles Stilinski’s shoulders like he’s the only solid structure on this block.

There are people swaying next to them, similarly compromised. Tightly wound and significantly inebriated. But Lydia feels alone. Like she’s in a bubble. Distanced.

Her eyes are too heavy to keep open, but the dark blue of Stiles’ button down looks so pretty in the dim light, and she can’t resist running her palms over the fabric. It feel so good.

She assumes he’s in the same textural headspace, because he hasn’t stopped running lazy open mouthed kisses on her neck and shoulder since they started dancing.

She feels his breath, hot on her jaw. The slick of his tongue, directly on her neck, followed by his pouty lips, the scraping of his teeth. Moving back and forth, over and over. It’s hypnotizing her, making her eyes flutter. She wants to close them and keep them closed. She doesn’t ever want to move. Doesn’t want to pull apart their tangled bodies, doesn’t want to stop feeling Stiles’ heart hammer in time with her own.

He moves for her, raising his head before leaning in and bumping her nose accidentally with his own.

“Thirsty.” he rasps, and she nods, suddenly parched. Though she can’t determine if it’s from the heat of his body or the smoke she inhaled.

Stiles gives her hip a squeeze and leaves her leaning against a corner of the room before taking off to the kitchen.

 

He grabs a now lukewarm beer, uncapping it against the kitchen counter when a couple beefy dudes make there way to sort through the drinks.

“Sup bruh.”

One mutters as he begins to pour some vodka into a bent solo cup. Stiles tilts his chin, tipping the beer back and drinking deeply.

“So...um...did I happen to see you dancing with Lydia Martin?”

Stiles stills. The three men observe his reaction with cold eyes.

“Stilinski right? Police? Lydia Martin did pretty well for herself I guess.”

A beefy blonde grins, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Wanna know something? She was always that pretty. She was our Homecoming Queen. Lydia-fucking-Martin.”

Stiles’ hands begin to quake.

They all take a sip of their drinks, waiting for him to say something. Stiles wills himself not to grit his teeth, despite feeling his heartbeat quicken. This wasn’t good.

He was used to people occasionally trying to play the tough guy and pick a fight with him, just so they could say they beat up the son of the Sheriff whose department was so highly regarded in this town. Every time it happened, the department was hit with a swarm of legal papers, rich boys threatening to sue Stiles for injury. It always reflected poorly on him. But he had a feeling that tonight, this wasn’t really about him at all.

“I dated her, you know.”

A brunette grumbles. He’s Stiles’ height, and the tallest of the group.

“For about a month, to be exact. But damn, was it the best month of my life. And Chester here--” he motions to his square jawed buddy. “Chester didn’t date her, but he got a crack at her. Just like everyone else on the lacrosse team.”

Chester leans forward, malice glinting in his eyes.

“She’s fucking _wild_ , huh Stilinski? What a minx. She was always crazy in bed. So frankly I wasn’t surprising when she left halfway through school for that little Eichen stint.”

Stiles feels his heart plummet to the floor.

“Fuck you,” he spits. “You watch your fucking mouth about her you fucking prick.”

There is nothing elegant about it, nothing clever or suave. Just fury, boiling over.

“Did she tell you her kinks yet?”

“God, there were so many!” his friend answers.

“There’s the daddy kink. She just couldn’t stop herself from calling me ‘daddy’ in bed. Practically _mewling_. And she loved to be spanked like the bad little girl she is.”

“Don’t forget she loves when you call it like it is. Loves to be called a slut, loves to be on top.”

“She tastes so good, huh Stilinski? Her pussy tastes like peaches and cream--”

There is nothing but red.

Chester goes down hard.

Stiles gets a good kick to the guy’s ribs before he’s clocked in the jaw. The two friends pounce on him, delivering swift blows to his side. Stiles grabs one of their arms as it juts out to hit him, bending it back unnaturally with a sickening crack. He shrieks, reeling backwards as Stiles serves a forceful blow to his friends stomach, making him double over. He’s vaguely aware of the screams now surrounding him, but all he can see is red red red, all he can feel is the scrape of his knuckles against the scruff of a jaw, blood gushing over his hands as he breaks the nose of whoever punched him in the mouth.

He feels hands grab his shoulders and pull him back, a familiar voice yelling, “They’re down! They’re all down! Stop hitting them they’re down!”

Stiles swings back, arm cocked and ready, only to be met with the concerned brown eyes of Scott McCall.

“Dude! Are you okay? What’s going on?! Stiles--!”

He doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence.

 

* * *

 

“Stiles!” Lydia rasps, calling out into the dark at his retreating figure. “Stiles, wait!”

Lydia watches him stomp to across the front yard. People stare at him, and then at her as she yells his name. She watches as he spits the blood from his mouth, spraying like mist before vanishing completely.

He’s got his hand on the door of the jeep by the time she catches up to him.

“Stiles!”

He spins around, and she sucks in a breath.

He’s dead behind the eyes.

“Can you catch a ride with Scott?” his voice scrapes, and then he’s in the driver’s seat, pulling away and leaving her empty and alone.

* * *

 

 

There is a knock on the bedroom door, and it pulls Lydia immediately out of her slumber.

She springs up, heart in her throat, watching as the door slowly swings open and Stiles saunters through.

“You’re here.” she whispers.

It’s so dark, and the moment feels so fragile.  She can’t see his face, but she sees the outline of his silhouette in the doorway.

“I was worried about you. You weren’t here when I got back. What time is it? God it’s gotta be like, four in the morning. Stiles I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen--”

“Do you want a cheeseburger?”

“...What?”

**  
**  


They sit in silence, the only sound coming from Lydia as she slurps up her chocolate milkshake. The second chocolate milkshake of the day.

Stiles reaches between them to the center console, picking up a few fries. It’s dark inside the jeep, the only light coming from the illumination of the In-N-Out sign, the headlights of the highway that stretches in front of them, and the radio, glowing 4:15 AM in green block lettering.

They had driven in silence, only breaking the stillness to order two double cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes.

Lydia was still in her nightgown, though she wrapped a thick robe around herself before they left. She had washed off her makeup and put her hair up hours ago. She had tossed and turned all night waiting for him to come home.

From the details she managed to gather from fellow party-goers, a few ex-lacrosse players had used her to bait Stiles into a fight, though it did appear that Stiles was the one to come out victorious. It was one against three, but considering that they had chosen to taunt a highly trained soldier, they were lucky they only came out with broken bones and bruised egos.

Lydia felt the shame hang low, like a stone in her belly.

Nothing she could say would make up for the stories about her. Nothing would make up for the dignity she lost years ago.

“Stiles,” she tries after an hour of silence. “Stiles...what they said about me. I’m so sorry. That was years ago, and I’m not like that anymore. I’m not like--”

“Lydia.” he murmurs, and it’s gentle.

She looks over at his profile. His dark eyebrows scrunched, hair wild, lips parted.

“Lydia, I don’t care about that. You shouldn’t care about that either.”

“...You’re not mad at me?”

He lets out a bark of laughter, and when he turns she can see the split in his lip and the dark purple bruise forming under his pronounced cheekbone.

“Why would I be mad at you? I’m the one who got in a fight. I’m the one who ruined the party. I’m the one who took off, definitely not sober enough by the way, and left. I owe you. I took you here to apologize.”

“You took me to In-N-Out at four in the morning to apologize to me?”

“...Yeah.”

“Are you still a little stoned?”

“...Yeah.”

She laughs, genuine and bubbly, and a smile twists onto his lips.

“So...you don’t care about my...sexual past?”

“God--Jeez, Lydia,” Stiles stutters, flailing slightly, “Why the fuck would it be any of my business? Those guys, they were creeps. Assholes. They said something a decent person would never say, and I just kind of got a little carried away. I’m really sorry. I know you were looking forward to this party. I’m sorry I ruined it for you. Sometimes I have a temper, which you’ve seen, unfortunately. I’m going to work on that. I’m really, really sorry Lydia.”

There is silence again, and she watches his eyes glass over in the moonlight.

Stiles Stilinski.

Protector of honor, one broken bone at a time.

She clears her throat and says, “....pass me a french fry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp.
> 
> Hope you liked it! This took me forever, jesus.
> 
> Let me know what you think!!  
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com  
> xx


	8. Damaged Goods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long you guys! I've been SUPER BUSY. I promise the next chapter will be a lengthy one.

She doesn’t want to, despite her feet aching and the sun beating down on the back of her neck.

She stares at the red car door for a minute, mulling through her options before letting out a shaky breath, quickly opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat.

Kira meets her withering gaze with wide eyes.

“Allison,” she starts.

“Look, I’m just really tired. Can you please just drop me off at my house?”

Kira solemnly nods, fiddling with the end of her pigtails before pulling out.

Allison closes her eyes and pushes her forehead to the window. She supposes she should thank the kitsune. After all, if Kira hadn’t just so happened to drive past Allison, she would have been doing the walk of shame all the way across town.

“I’m sorry.” Kira says after a few minutes of silence. “I was never trying to hide it from you. I just didn’t know when to bring it up. We just met. I was still trying to win you over…”

“Do you love him?” It comes out broken.

She watches as Kira sucks in a breath.

“...S-somedays it certainly feels that way.”

She’s glad in a way.

Scott deserves someone that loves him. Allison inspects the bottom of her heels clutched in her hand. It gives her something to focus on besides the lump slowly forming in her throat.  


They’re quiet again until Kira pulls up in front of Allison’s house.

“I’m not mad.” Allison breaks the stillness. “Kira, I’m not mad at you. You seem amazing. And it’s been years since I dated Scott. I’m not mad. I’m glad you found each other.”

“I wanted to tell you. I really am sorry.”

Kira doesn’t ask why Allison was walking around town barefoot in the clothes she wore to Danny’s party. Allison is grateful for it, but indulges her anyway.

“So. Isaac Lahey.... Nice guy.”

Kira lets out a slow smile.

 

 

* * *

 

Double cheeseburgers, a milkshake and fries on top of booze and pot does not a healthy girl make.

Lydia doubled over twice that morning, expunging the remnants of the night into the toilet.

She’s furious. She can’t remember the last time she allowed herself to get that inebriated. Lydia Martin doesn’t _do_ sloppy drunk.

_This is what you get for eating carbs, Lydia._

Stiles knocks on the door for the third time that morning, calling through the door to ask if she’s okay.

“Fuck off Stilinski!”

She doesn’t care that it’s irrational to blame him for the fact that she’s currently expelling her insides. She can hear him huff on the other side of the door, but she can tell she hasn’t offended.

“So that’s a no to a giant pancake breakfast?”

She groans.

“With extra sausage and bacon and grease and syrup?”

She groans louder.  


 

When she finally exits the bathroom in sweats, hair in a knot on top of her head and face clean, she’s glaring at him. He smiles widely, holding out a plate of plain toast and a cup of tea.

“Good morning, beautiful!”

“I will end you.”

“Aww, love you too babe. You’re so sweet.” he smirks, running a hand through his bedhead.

They make their way to the balcony, falling into their regular pattern of sitting and silence.

She eventually snatches the toast, taking a cautious nibble of the corner while eyeing him suspiciously.

“You’re not hungover?”

“Nope, I feel as fresh as a daisy.”

“...You puked before I woke up didn’t you?”

“Yup.” he confirms, popping the 'p' with his lips.

She cracks a smile at him, and watches as his mouth quirks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“So did you find out a little bit more about me? Besides my, _ahem_ , unfortunate sexual history?”

“You like drinking games.”

“It feeds into my competitive nature.”

“And unlike my previous assumptions, you also don’t like the radio. Especially top 40 radio.”

This makes her still.

“Did...did I tell you that?”

Stiles shakes his head, eyes on the treeline.

“You like dancing, but every time a new song came on, you got this weird look in your eyes and you swallowed.”

“That’s because the playlist was horrid.”

“ _Lydia_.” he whispers, and suddenly she’s afraid to turn her head to the side and face him.

Never in her life had she felt that way about a man. Nervous, unsure of herself. The fact that she struggles to remain composed around Stiles Stilinski was undoing her.

She wasn’t ready for it. She wasn’t ready for Stiles to start unwrapping her like a present, to see all of her cracks and hidden layers and secrets. She had so carefully created this image to present to him.

If Lydia had to marry a complete stranger, if she had to give up everything, she wasn’t going to go down easy. She didn’t want to hand over that kind of power. If she was going to belong to somebody, she still wanted to belong to herself. She would give him this vacant, pretty girl. The trophy wife that everyone expected her to be. A shallow shell of Lydia Martin, and it would satisfy him, as it satisfied everyone.

And she could keep herself in return.

She could keep her sharp edges, her constantly whirring mind, her poisonous lips. He could have her Yes Dear and No Dear and Of Course Dear. But Lydia Martin would belong to her, and only her.

Only, that isn’t the case. Not anymore.

“I hate the radio.”

It shakes when it comes out, but she swallows and continues.

“I _hate_ the radio, _especially_ top 40. The voices reach me through the chords. Through the static. I _don’t_ enjoy eating carbs. They make me bloated. I _do_ like parties, but I _don’t_ like the judgmental eyes when I take someone upstairs. But that’s just it, isn’t it? Cool girls sing along to the radio, and cool girls eat carbs and cool girls play coy.”

He’s watching her with a look she can’t decipher, and it makes her on edge.

She rakes her gaze over his face. The light amber of his eyes, the slope of his defined cupid’s bow, the arc of his slightly upturned nose, how his brow seems constantly furrowed. How is gaze is always, always, always taking in.  
Never resting.  
Never just accepting something as is.  
His need to capture every detail, every nuance, every shade and color and shape and expression. The drumming of his long, strong fingers. The way his knee bounces. The blinking of his long, dark, thick lashes. The constant state of bedhead. His penchant for plaid and hoodies and thermals, all pushed up his strong forearms.

_Stiles Stilinski._

Every part and piece of him.

She studies him as he studies her.

“I never wanted that.” he growls, and it hits a spot deep within her. “I never, never wanted that from you.”

She believes him.

 

* * *

 

This time when they drive to the station, Stiles keeps the radio off.

 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, Allison opens the door to her home to greet Lydia.

“I want to plan the wedding.”

 

* * *

 

The thing about Scott McCall, Stiles reasoned, was that he had a deeply ingrained hero-complex.

As if reading his mind, Scott looks up from his mashed potatoes to smile wolfishly at him across the dining room table.

“Stiles? More meatloaf?” Melissa asks, already moving to pile more on his plate.

He thanks her, silently taking her in.   
She has dark hair, like his mother used to have. But her skin is olive, not fair, and her eyes are a gentle chocolate brown, like Scott’s. Not a lighter shade, like Claudia’s was. But there was something in the way Melissa moved that was reminiscent of her.

Maybe that was just the way all mothers moved. Open and honest and assured. Warm.

Her presence is drawing him in, soothed him the moment she ushered him through the door of her home.

Sure Scott had been the one to invite him over for dinner and x-box, but it was Melissa that was compelling him to stay.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing about dead mothers, is that it ruins you.   
  
Stiles remembers whispering up to the ceiling at two in the morning, _Thanks for this beautiful life and forgive me if I don’t love it enough_.

 

* * *

 

They’re driving back to the apartment when Stiles gets a call about a rogue werewolf that slaughtered a group of school children that were walking home from the bus stop. He pulls a violent U-Turn, and Lydia clutches the dashboard with white knuckles.

  
  
  
  
There are squad cars everywhere when they pull up.

Allison rushes to the jeep with wide eyes.

“He’s holed up in the house. It’s officially a...417.” Allison’s eyes flit up to Lydia’s before falling.

Lydia feels her skin prickle.

“What’s a 417? Stiles, what’s a 417?” she feels herself say, as if in a dream. It sounds so frantic, for a moment she doesn’t register it came from her own mouth.

Stiles’ hands are tight on the steering wheel, as he stares out at the empty looking house on the street currently blocked off.

“Stiles, what’s a 417?” Lydia asks again, this time gripping his shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

Stiles runs a hand down his mouth before jumping out of the driver’s seat.

“Get her out of here.” he murmurs to Allison, and Lydia feels her jaw drop.

“Stiles!” she shouts, pushing Allison’s hands away as Allison tries to soothe her with empty words. “Stiles!”

He doesn’t turn around to look at her.

“What’s going on?!” she shrieks at Allison, and she can’t find it in herself to care that her eyes are wild or that it comes out sounding wounded and wrong. “What’s he doing, Ally?! What’s he doing?!”

Allison is dragging her out of the car, even as Lydia goes kicking and screaming. Allison continues to drag her, but she keeps watching Stiles, unable to turn away, even as she sees a group of officers place him in a bulletproof vest.

  


Stiles is hollow as Lydia’s shrieks eventually fade.

“Get Scott McCall on the phone.”

  
  


Scott arrives at the scene seven minutes later, motorcycle helmet under one arm.

“Dude, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Stiles is appreciative that he makes no comment about the fact that the Argents are all assembled, ready to be given the word to advance. Or the fact that he’s practically in SWAT gear.

Stiles fills him in, clinical and quick.

“Rogue werewolf, seven children dead. He’s holed himself up in that house, and he has a gun. We’re not sure what his intentions are, if there are hostages or if he plans on attacking, or if he’s planning on a suicide.”

Scott follows him to the front of the house, nodding as he takes in the information.

“What can I do?”

“Before I give the Argents the go-ahead...I want to go up there. And I want you to come with me.”

When Scott raises his head to level Stiles with his gaze, Stiles feels himself lick his lips in anticipation.

“I’ve done this far more than I care to admit. But that was before I met you, Scott. Usually with these situations, there is no good ending. But I thought...maybe…”

“...Maybe I can talk him down.” Scott finishes for him.

There is a thrumming in Stiles’ chest as the adrenaline finally catches up to him. Because maybe Scott could give a good ending. Maybe this would end in a captured criminal and lots of paperwork, instead of a lot of paperwork and even more dead bodies.

Stiles can’t put his finger on why, but having Scott beside him makes him feel like the outcome is attainable.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Even though they’ve already notified the werewolf that they’re approaching the house, Stiles knows the drumbeat of his heart would have given them away regardless.

They tiptoe through the empty rooms, Scott with his claws out and his eyes glowing red, Stiles with his arms locked and gun pointed at the floorboards.

 

When Stiles toes open the cracked bedroom door, they take in the broken man on his knees in the middle of the room, hands oily and wet with blood. A gun pressed to his temple.

Stiles opens his mouth, readying to recite his tried and true protocol in situations like this, when he feels Scott shift beside him.

“ _It wasn’t your fault_.”

Stiles whips his head to stare at the alpha incredulously.

Of _course_ it was his fault. There were parents in mourning tonight. There were child sized coffins being built. There were beds that would be vacant and families that would crumble from within, of-fucking- _course_ it was his fucking fault.

The man’s breath shudders in his chest, and Stiles’ hands begin to shake, the grip of his gun becoming slippery in his sweating palms.  

Scott continues, this time with his hand slowly reaching out.

“ _I can help you. This will never happen again, I swear to you. I can be there for you. You have me. You’re not alone_.”

Stiles bites down hard, swallowing the anger that has begun to boil hot and heavy in his belly.  
Because this is not what he wanted.  
This creature does not deserve redemption.  
He deserves to be in handcuffs, thrown in a cell until he rots.  
Scott was supposed to talk him down enough for Stiles to cuff him, not assure him. Not promise him a future.

  
The man coughs out a sob.

“I can’t do it. I can’t live with myself. I killed them. They were just _babies._ ”

Something _rips_ inside Stiles’ chest, and he finds himself licking his lips and biting down, feeling a wetness pool in his eyes, hot and furious.

“Let him go, Scott.” he croaks, blinking rapidly.

Scott turns to look at him, and the concern in his eyes is so sincere that Stiles can’t hold his stare. Because this monster is damaged goods. He is broken beyond repair. Unfixable.  
Stiles swipes a hand over his face, violently brushing away the sweat and tears.

  
Some people were not meant for this world. Some people do nothing but hurt. Some people really are nothing but the creature deep inside that takes hold with an iron grip.

  
Stiles would know.

But Scott can’t accept that, and he shakes his head, walking slowly forward until he crouches down, face to face with the man.

Stiles holds his breath as Scott gently peels his fingers away from the shaking gun, placing it on the floor.

Then he opens his arms wide, and for a moment Stiles sees his silhouette illuminated by the setting sun, spread like wings about to take flight.

The man falls into them like a dead weight, shaking and howling.

Scott holds tight. Scott doesn’t let go.

  
  
Stiles turns around and vomits on his boots.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Lydia storms into his office with her face bright red, tears brimming in her eyes, and she opens her mouth to scream at him, ready to fight.

Stiles kisses her.

Stiles pushes his lips to hers, grabbing her face and holding on tight until she pulls away with a gasping breath, but he doesn’t let her move far. Just cups her face in his hands, inches away. He watches as a myriad of emotions flit over her face, her eyes racing back and forth to watch his own eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he whispers, and her hair blows away softly from her face at his confession. “I’m sorry, Lydia.”

 

* * *

 

 

When she leaves his office, it’s with an uncertain smile, and he assures her he will meet up with her back at the apartment in a few minutes.

Lydia closes the door to his office.  
Stiles looks at it for a moment before walking over to the closet in his office, producing a key from his pocket.

He turns it in the doorknob, flicking on the light and taking in the broad expanse of the conspiracy board before him.   
Stiles approaches slowly.

He traces the red lines from Scott McCall’s picture to the red lines that trail down to his betas. Isaac, Liam, Kira….Lydia.   
Lydia takes up the majority of the board. He studies her picture, the way her hair falls in waves around her face as she looks over her shoulder.   
Below in white pencil he reads what he’s written.

  
_Lydia Martin_

_Genius._

_Turned Banshee. (Not born)._

_Aiden._

_Tragedy? I am part of her tragedy?_

_Violent accident._

 

Stiles raises a trembling hand, and writes a single word:

 

_Eichen._

  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com 
> 
> xx


	9. The Center

Lydia wakes up with Scott’s warm hand wrapped all the way around her wrist. It’s a familiar gesture, honed over years of sleepovers and accidental naps during Star Wars, a movie which they have both yet to see, but try over and over to watch. (They can’t help it. Once the scroll-y words finish moving past the screen, they’re both out like a light).

Lydia watches him now through blurred eyes. The way his lips are softly parted, the small scar under his cheekbone from his skateboarding accident. How his dark brows finally relax only when he dreams.

He feels her gaze and blinks blearily.

“How long have I been asleep for?” Lydia says, voice low and gritty with sleep. Scott gives her wrist a squeeze before using the same hand to rub at his eyes. He makes an I-don’t-know noise.

“I passed out right after you.”

It feels nice, being back in his bedroom, just the two of them. Lydia remembers sleeping over almost every weekend after the incident.

“So,” Lydia says, fruitlessly clearing the raspy cobwebs from her throat. “Allison Argent.”

Scott smiles but looks down at the space on the bed between them. “You two are becoming fast friends, huh?”

“She still looks just like the pictures you sent me.”

“I wish you could have met her then,” Scott says, and it sounds sad.

“Come on. That was a long time ago. We’ve moved past that.”

“Yeah,” Scott nods, “But did we _overcome_ it.”

It’s not a question. Lydia meets his warm eyes and tries not to think about what happened in high school.

“At least we know now,” she says with a shrug. “You know...why...I am the way I was…”

They lay in silence for a few minutes, lost in the memory of it all.

“I’m not going to bring it up again, because fuck that,” Scott mumbles and Lydia lets out a short burst of air through her nose. “But...I was lost without you then. I wish I could have been there for you.”

Lydia blinks hard, wipes at the wetness in the corners of her eyes.

“I thought you said you weren’t bringing it up again,” she smirks, coy.

Scott grins, but there is wetness in his eyes too.

“Sorry. I’m just...you’re getting married? Stiles seems like a good guy, and I remember a little about him from what Allison told me, but still. It’s always just been us. Even before the pack formed. I’m scared I’ve let you down again. I’m scared this isn’t the right decision. It kind of feels...like you’ll be unreachable again.”

Lydia stretches into the space between them, wrapping her slender fingers around his wrist. They don’t wrap all the way around, they way his does to hers. But he’s warm, and her hands are perpetually cold. And this is right.

As long as Lydia has Scott, it’s always going to be right.

“Please don’t make me say something sappy like, ‘I chose this. I decided this. You’ve always done your best. You’ll always have me.’”

“I mean,” Scott wrinkles his nose, “That sounds good to me.”

She laughs and props herself up on her elbows.

“Melissa still at the hospital?”

“Yeah. Meredith enjoy those peanut butter cookies last week?”

“Yup. Always does. I told her to switch it up a bit. Chocolate-chip or oatmeal-raisin at _least_ , but. You know Meredith. Stubborn.”

Scott sits up, rubbing at the thick dark hair on his head. “Want me to drop you back off at your apartment?”

 _Your apartment_. Lydia was still getting used to wrapping her head around that sentence. It still felt like Stiles Stilinski’s apartment.

“I don’t know,” she says, and he turns to face her. “Still a bit sleepy. Kind of just want to take a nap with my best friend, you know? Soak it all in a little while I can.”

 

* * *

 

Allison enters the coffee shop in a whirlwind. She’s wearing a flowy jean skirt that really shows off her killer legs, and a bright pink lipstick to boot? Lydia’s so proud.

“Hey,” Allison greets her with a kiss on her cheek, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head. “How’s it going?”

Lydia smacks her lips and pushes Allison’s order across the table, an iced chai with soy milk. Allison smiles at her thoughtfulness and it lights up the entire shop.

“The usual,” Lydia sniffs, licking whipped cream from her straw with pouty lips. “Internally screaming at the prospect of marrying Stiles Stilinski.”

Allison cringes, looking guiltily down at a ring on her pointer finger that drums on the sticky table surface.

“Yeah. About that. Sorry again. Protocol…”

Lydia rolls her eyes and blows a tendril of hair out of her face. She’d rather not recall that night. She’d rather not recall the vision of seeing the taskforce strapping on bulletproof armor. She’d rather not remember Allison squeezing onto her thin biceps, her fingerprints leaving bruises while she tried in vain to calm her with aloof, rational words.

Lydia went to bed staring at the ceiling. Thinking of Stiles entering the house, unsure if she’d see him leave. Unsure as to why it bothered her so much. Unsure of the tingling feeling of his lips on her own, even hours after they’d briefly brushed.

When she had woken up in the morning, he still wasn’t home. She left with a simmering in the pit of her stomach for reasons that escaped her. They hadn’t run into each other since. Lydia steered clear of the apartment. She could only assume he was doing something similar.

Maybe he was feeling the same way she was. Maybe he too was apprehensive as to why those feelings mattered so much.

“You're different,” Allison’s words reach through the hazy stuttering of her heartbeat.

“What you do you mean?” She asks, pretending to shoot out a text to absolutely no one.

When Allison doesn’t immediately answer, Lydia looks up from the blank screen of her phone.

“Remember when we first met?”

Lydia rolls her eyes, “You mean like, two weeks ago?”

Allison playfully shoves her shoulder, and Lydia smirks in return. “Yes, of course I remember. I asked your advice on a certain someone.”

“And when we went to the movies with Kira. You were like that then, too.”

“Your point being…?”

“I think I get it now,” Allison says simply with a shrug.

Lydia’s not sure what she means, and even more unsure if she wants to know.

 

* * *

  

_She looks good._

Stiles rereads the text of Allison’s response and places the phone in the pocket of his jeans. His sneakers squeak against the linoleum of the floor, fluorescent lights buzzing above. It feels entirely different now, being the visitor as opposed to the ward, but he can’t stop himself from biting down at the flesh on his thumb. Not even when he tastes the coppery slip of his own blood pool between his lips and drip onto his shirt, staining like a single tear drop.

“Shit,” he mumbles, pulling the fabric away from his chest to inspect the damage. If there’s anything the past few years have taught him though, it’s how to get blood out of clothing.

“Stewart Stevens?” A nurse calls out through the waiting room, and Stiles’ head jerks up with a nod, following her through the sterile doors into the underbelly of the beast.

 

 

The banshee isn’t what he’s expecting. She looks...normal. Relatively. She’s not a hag, but she’s not a beauty queen like Lydia. She’s just...normal. Stiles watches as her eyes scan just outside of his body, not quite landing directly on him.

“Your aura is broken.”

Ok then. Not so normal.

“Uh...sorry?” He says with a scrunch of his brows.

“Oh no, no. It wasn’t your fault. You know this by now, right?” She asks, and finally, her hollow eyes land on him. He feels the hairs stand on the back of his neck. “You have blood on your hands.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he spits, and he’s surprised at how scared it sounds coming out.

“I’m sorry,” she says genuinely. “But you really should get that looked at. Don’t want it to get infected.” And then she gestures to his hands. He looks down and sees the crimson bed of his fingertips peek out from nails, brutally nawed. His thumb, having received the worse of the damage, was beginning to purple.

He breathes out an unsteady exhale, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his conscience.

“I’m Meredith,” she says after his heartbeat slows to a normal pace.

“I know.”

“I’m just telling you because we’ve never met, even though you told them we have,” she explains, nodding to the orderlies who flock the door of the visiting room with vacant eyes. “This is the nice room. They have the squishy armchairs, and a television, and people can come and go when they want. And they have Chutes and Ladders. Wanna play Chutes and Ladders?”

Stiles lets himself smile thinly. “Maybe later, Meredith.”

The banshee smiles thinly back. “Lydia never wants to play either.”

He swears he can physically feel his heart stop. She must notice the look on his face, because she leans across the coffee table to whisper conspiratorially, “It’s because she knows I’ll always win.”

“Don’t tell her,” he chokes out, “how? How did--?”

“But Lydia always brings peanut butter cookies,” Meredith continues, ignoring or unaware of his obvious distress. “She’s terrible in the kitchen but she does it for me. It’s the only thing that she can make and do it well. That’s why I love her. That’s why she is my friend.”

Stiles’ hands tremble so violently he can barely wrap his fingers around her wrist. Meredith looks down at her captive hand.

“You can’t let it go, can you? You know they don’t know who you are.”

“Stop it,” Stiles rasps, and he knows now. It was foolish to come here and ask questions. The banshee knew more than he ever had wanted her to know. This meeting wasn’t supposed to be about him. He was trying to pry in, but she was already looking out.

Can Lydia do this? Is Lydia just as aware? Was he wearing the past on his skin like a tattoo, permanent and visible to everyone but himself?

“You’re bleeding into me, you’re getting yourself all over me,” Meredith says, and she sounds fearful. Good.

Stiles squeezes tighter, unable to stop the breath that enters and exits at an alarmingly rapid rate. “Are you fucking with me?” He hisses, all breath and wild eyes. “Are you fucking with me?!”

Meredith’s head shakes back and forth, mouth pulling down at the corners. “You’re so scared. You’re so scared. You’re so scared. You’re so scared.”

“Hey what’s going on over there?” An orderly calls out, and Stiles rips away from her, eyes burning and chest heaving.

Meredith stares at him with such terror that he feels exactly like he did when he was seventeen. A monster.

He hears himself whisper a plea, _Please don’t tell her_ , and then he does the only thing he can do well. He runs.

 

* * *

  

She’s planning on ignoring him when he bursts through the apartment door, but the look on his face makes her blood run cold.

“What’s wrong?” She whispers as his eyes dart to her before shutting painfully. “Stiles, what is it?”

He marches straight to the bedroom, and as he passes Lydia she can hear him panting so loudly his throat cracks with the exertion. Then the door slams shut and Lydia is alone.

 

* * *

   
  
She thinks about a dozen different ways to reach out to him. She considers knocking on the door with a plate of food. Considers calling Allison, even his father. She considers leaving him alone. But in the end he’s the one that emerges first without her coaxing.

“Hey,” he says, and Lydia jumps about a foot in the air. He’s standing behind her in a different shirt than he came in with, looking like he’s aged about ten years around his eyes. But he is smiling. His lips drawn back, one corner rising higher than the other in a way that makes Lydia ache for indiscernible reasons.

Maybe it’s because his eyes are so soft looking at her. Tender, almost sleepy. Maybe it’s because he chose not to stay in the room all day, even though he was distraught enough to.  
Maybe it’s because this stranger, this Stiles Stilinski, who somehow had entered her life mere weeks ago in a whirlwind of energy and confusion and chaos, maybe he was someone she was starting to care about.

“Hey,” she responds, voice fracturing on the monosyllable. “You okay?”

He scrubs at the bridge of his nose with a battered finger, dropping his hand when her eyes dart to it.

“I will be. Can I show you something?”

 

 

He parks the jeep in front of a house on a quiet street. When she looks over at him, a question on her brow, he quickly pulls his fingers out from between his lips.

“That’s my house,” he says with a jerk of his chin. “Uh, was. Before I moved out to the apartment we’re in now. But I grew up there with my parents. Dad still lives here, but he’s at work.”

Lydia turns to look at the home once again with different eyes.

“You only lived a few blocks from me.”

His lips quirk in amusement. “No shit?”

She turns back to him with a smile. “No shit.”

They study each other for a few loaded seconds before her eyes drop with a clear of her throat. “I’ll show you sometime.”

“I’d like that,” he murmurs.

 

 

The grass is cool under her toes when she heels off her shoes, padding barefoot after him in the backyard. He had given her a tour through his childhood home, and she was struck with the stark difference between the houses they grew up in.  
Her own home had been meticulously preserved, a suburban museum. But his house? There was life in this house. It was well worn with it. There were dirty dishes in the sink and plush couches imprinted from bodies that had sat in the same spot for years. There were books and plants and pictures of a smiling woman in almost every room.

Lydia takes it all in, peering into bookshelves and examining weathered photographs of a smiling boy missing a front tooth. Stiles watched her with arms loose at his side, occasionally rubbing the back of his neck when she made a particularly embarrassing discovery. Such as his fifth place bowling trophy, and a spectacularly sappy poem dedicated to his hamster framed on the wall.

Here outside, the grass is in need of a trim, and there is a rose bush blooming wildly. Stiles leads her to grand oak taking space in the center of the yard from which a rudimentary swing hangs, lazily swaying in the summer heat. He gestures for Lydia to sit down, and when he pulls back the ropes behind her to lift her off the ground, her heart tumbles violently in her chest.

She kicks her feet up, uncaring when her skirt pillows around the smooth expanse of her thighs. It’s a delicious feeling. The breeze, her bare feet skimming the grass, Stiles grinning behind her as his fingertips push off the base of her spine. When they connect with her skin, the familiar jolt tugs at her chest and she lets out a little ' _woo!_ ' Stiles laughs because he knows exactly why, and when she turns around to grin at him, he shoots her a wink.  
  
Above them, green leaves filter sugared sunlight. Below, Lydia can feel the warmth of the earth. She feels centered. For the first time in a long time, she feels exactly where she should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I've had a rough couple months and went through a major move, but all is well and I'm excited for the next chapter in my life. I promise to be more prolific! 
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com


	10. The Black & The White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitch. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

It didn’t matter how many times he sat on the squashy couch in the sun-drenched room, it never became a comfortable part of his routine. 

Across from him Ms. Morrell smiles patiently, but damn is it hard to talk today. His knee has been jumping up and down for almost ten minutes now, the sound of his squeaking sneakers the only noise in the room. 

The most miraculous part of his therapy sessions is Ms. Morrell’s almost superhuman tolerance for his antics. She just lets him bounce it out. Sometimes he is all mouth for the entire hour, and she can’t get a word in. Sometimes he is stony silence and unanswered questions; staring over her shoulder until their time is up. Sometimes he is jittery legs and trembling hands and chewed thumbs. Whatever his body decided to manifest today hadn’t mattered to her so far. And for that, despite his discomfort with his therapy sessions, he is grateful. 

It’s not that he didn’t want to talk today. He really, really does. But today his mind is on a rapidfire loop, and every time he tries to reach out and grab a concrete emotion or thought, it just slips right through his fingers. 

“Stiles,” Ms. Morrell silkily coaches after fifteen minutes of deafening silence. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Lydia.” It slips out, his mouth quicker than his mind. It actually takes him a full forty-five seconds to register what he’s said before turning a brilliant shade of red. 

True to form, she just politely smiles. “How are you acclimating to having her at your place? Must be a little odd, having a stranger live with you.”

“It’s even weirder to have a stranger marry you,” he snorts, bringing his hand down from his mouth. He prepares for Ms. Morrell to ask a follow up question, but she just waits for him to elaborate; observing him with her clever, honeyed eyes. 

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, and it cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sometimes...I wonder if she’ll be the end of everything.”

This seems to pique her interest, and she tilts her head to the side. “And what do you mean by that, Stiles?”

What  _ does _ he mean by that? 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way. Well...at least I don’t  _ think _ I do. Wait. Maybe I do!” He debates, shaking his head as if he could clear his thoughts from the action. “No. What I mean is that when I marry Lydia, everything is going to change. I’ll be someone’s husband. And that’s just...  _ insane _ . I mean, like you said, we’re  _ strangers _ . Sure I’m getting to know her day by day, but...I’m confused.” 

Ms. Morrell crosses her legs. “What is confusing you?”

“I’m confused about what the future holds for me. For us, as partners. For Lydia, as an individual. I’m confused about who she really is.  **_What_ ** she really is. I’m don’t understand her sometimes, though I’m trying really hard to pay attention and remember,” he mutters, picking at his jeans.    
  
“Scott told me...something happened to her to make her that way. A banshee,” he clarifies.    
“I don’t know if I had a part in that, and it scares me because what if  _ I  _ was that something that happened to her? What if the same something happened to us both? I don’t know what I’d do if it was my fault. I don’t know how to feel when she keeps secrets, knowing that I keep secrets from her too. Did I tell you that when our hands touch, we get this… _ feeling _ ?”

“What feeling is that, Stiles?” She quietly prompts.

“I guess it’s not so much a feeling as a physical reaction. But like, it feels like...a pull. Like magnets, but in the center of my chest. So, I kinda I feel her pulling me in, but I also feel myself pulling her too.” 

He really can’t understand why he’s stuttering and blushing, but Ms. Morrell makes no comment on either. “That sounds pretty intense.”

“It is,” he says, and he means it. There’s no point in being dishonest about how it feels. “I just don’t know how this is all going to unfold. I don’t know if we’d be good together, or if we’d tear each other apart. And...and...I don’t know, if uh, it’s normal to feel this way about someone I just met.” 

She allows him to be silent for a few moments, digesting the weight of the confession. 

He likes her. He likes Lydia Martin. 

He likes how she wrinkles her nose at his bad jokes, and how when he can make her laugh, really laugh, she throws her whole head back. He likes how she leaves him alone when he needs a moment to breathe, and how she knows to check on him when her company is needed. He likes the fact that she takes thirty minute showers and hums when she makes coffee and prefers to listen to his incessant, rambling commentary instead of the radio. He likes Lydia when she’s hiding and even more when she’s baring everything because she trusts him. He likes that she is smarter than him, and that she challenges him, and that she fights for what she believes in, and that she’s fiercely loyal to those deemed worthy of her time. He finds himself ceaselessly marveling at the impossibility of how she’s both hard and soft, all at once.

“Maybe it’s not normal,” Ms. Morrell whispers into the loaded quiet that hangs in the dusty sunbeams between them. “And maybe you should start wondering why that is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is sitting outside when Lydia comes home. “Hey,” she greets from the doorway to the patio. Stiles puts down his book and blows out the smoke in his mouth. 

“Hey Lydia.”

“You have a good day?” She asks, toeing out of her heels and plopping down on the seat next to him. Stiles nods, passing her the morning newspaper that he knows she likes to read, already flipped to the section she jumps right to.  

She smiles gratefully before settling in, resting her lean legs on the railing, ankles crossed. He allows his eyes to rake her figure once before he has to physically force himself to turn his gaze back to the now blurred words on the page. 

“So I was thinking,” she says, eyes still scanning the print of the paper, “Want to go out to dinner tonight? My pack is going. You could bring Allison.”

He brings his clove cigarette to his lips in thought. The last time he really saw her pack, they were in his father’s office going over the terms of his and Lydia’s marriage. And sure, while they all seemed decent enough, Scott in particular, he’s never spent time with them as a group. He’d be the outlier. 

He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t realize Lydia is watching him until he looks up. Her head is tilted to the side, green gaze curiously observing his internal monologue. 

“It’s just dinner,” she says, smiling softly. “I promise Liam will be on his best behavior. I can ask him to attack only one innocent bystander tonight, if you’d like.”  

He lets out a chuckle, ducking his head to look at his feet and then back up at her. Suddenly he feels a little more at ease.

 

* * *

 

It should be uncomfortable that Scott has his arm around Kira, but Allison decides it’s not. Kira, however, hasn’t stopped blushing in the florescent light of the diner since Allison arrived with Lydia and Stiles.   
  
It would be so easy to hate her, if Allison didn’t love her so much. Instead she looks at the way Scott squeezes Kira’s shoulder after someone makes a joke that sends the whole table into peals of laughter. 

She remembers that squeeze. She remembers feeling like when he did that, they were the only ones that really understood the joke. They were a unit within a group, separate in a world only they know. 

But she wasn’t a part of that world anymore. Now it was a world private to only Kira and Scott. 

“Everything good?” She feel’s Isaac’s cool breath tickle the shell of her ear, and she turns to give him a smile. 

“I’m happy,” she says, and means it. Her eyes are wet, there is a lump in her throat, and she is so, so happy. 

Isaac smiles slowly, and she feels herself warm from his gaze and the way long lined dimples manifest under his cheekbones, crinkles bracketing the corners of his eyes. Beneath the table, Lydia squeezes her hand despite appearing to be totally engrossed with Liam’s current high school drama. 

Liam’s frantically moving his hands and chewing his lower lip, and at one point in his story, Lydia actually laughs at him. But it’s good natured and he smiles along with her as the rest of the table join in with her laughter.  

Stiles always looks at Lydia before laughing himself, Allison notices. She also notices that he passed her the ketchup before she asked for it, and that he briefly places a hand at her back, near her neck, when she starts to speak. When Allison looks at Scott, as if asking for confirmation, he just smiles secretly, and suddenly Allison doesn’t feel so left out of his world anymore. 

 

 

 

Two hours later, the pack decides to walk off the greasy goodness of diner fries. Lydia relishes the feeling of the warm summer air blowing across her cheeks...the sky turning pink and candied by the tangerine orange sun...the way Stiles has decided to walk beside her, slipping his warm palm into her own. She looks up at him as he does so, and though he’s staring straight ahead, his mouth is twisted in a small smile, his cheeks pink and hair windblown.    
  
She feels the callouses of his fingers and strokes his thumb with her own, heart jolting in her chest. In front of the pack, Scott chats soothingly to Liam, still harping on about a Hayden and other various high school woes as Kira makes the occasional kind-hearted input. Allison walks beside them with Isaac, and Lydia can hear her tinkling laugh more than once.

“I have a surprise for you guys,” Scott says suddenly, turning on his heel to address them, walking backwards and grinning. 

“Oh boy,” Lydia sighs. “I know that smile.”

Scott snorts and moves to ruffle her hair, she ducks, swatting his hand away playfully. 

“Lyds, you’ll like it, I promise.” 

 

 

The surprise ends up being a tall, beautiful black man and a curvy blonde with a wicked grin, waiting for the group in front of a park entrance. 

“Oh my GOD!” Lydia shouts, rushing to embrace the pair. “Boyd, Erica, how are you?!”

“So good,” Erica croons, sticking her arm around Boyd’s waist. “We just got back from our honeymoon in Bali. We slept under the stars and moon for a whole month.” 

“So romantic,” Kira sighs, hugging Erica tightly. 

Scott makes the introduction to Stiles and Allison, and they shake the couple’s hands with warm smiles. 

“They moved to New York after we graduated and they’ve been away enjoying their lives ever since, of course.” He grins, reaching on his tiptoes to throw an arm around Boyd’s expansive shoulders. Boyd rolls his eyes but smiles endearingly. 

“We actually brought a vagabond back with us. We met her a couple months ago, and we hit it off right away. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding, and says she’s from this area, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it.” Stiles murmurs, smirking. “Where is she?”

“She’s running late. But she should--oh wait, here she comes!” Erica says, grinning and waving over the shoulders of the pack. 

Lydia turns to see a beautiful, leggy figure running toward them. 

“Hey! Hey sorry I’m late, hey,” the girl huffs, skidding to a stop and tossing her cropped hair out of her face. 

It goes very quiet behind Lydia but she doesn’t register the silence until after the girl smiles at her, sticking out her hand.

“Hi, Malia Tate, how are ya. Say, Boyd- _ -oh _ . Oh. Hey Kira. Uh...Stiles…” 

 

 

Stiles is fairly certain he’s going to melt into the hot pavement below his sneakers. Malia Tate is  _ here _ . And she knows Kira?? And apparently is friendly with members of Scott’s pack???

He shoots a sideways look at Lydia, who now has her arms crossed and is tapping a heeled foot erratically, stony faced. Not good. 

Malia shuffles awkwardly beside her, mouth quirking to smile occasionally at Liam’s obvious mooning and Scott’s questioning. Her eyes dart from his to Kira’s who, for some strange reason, has gone a striking shade of scarlet. 

He wracks his brain for the last time he’d seen Malia. He had broken up with her over the phone once he got the news about his impending arranged marriage, and both had accepted the breakup with relative ease. Last he had heard she was somewhere in New Mexico. That had been almost two months ago, and the breakup had only occurred about a month ago. Just thinking about how quickly his life had contracted and expanded, and been flipped on its head in the span of mere _ weeks _ made his vision spin. 

“Let’s walk and talk,” Liam suggests after several agonizing minutes of catching up, and they heartily agree. 

Lydia has chosen to saunter ahead of him this time. He watches her hips sway in painful mourning. 

“You alright, Stiles?” He hears a whisper, and turns to face Scott’s puppy dog eyes. 

“I fucked up,” Stiles bobs his head forward, eyes dead and mouth a tight line. “Fuck, Scott, the last thing I said to Lydia about Malia was that I’d call her up to fuck her during our marriage!” 

Scott’s jaw drops and he looks appropriately and comically aghast. 

“Dude,  _ why _ ?!” 

“I mean, it’s a long story. And I didn’t quite say it in those words, but I might as well have.”

They both silently watch as Malia amicably chats it up with Erica and Boyd, and Lydia’s curls bounce viciously behind her. 

“You know, for a werecoyote and a banshee, it’s kind of surprising that Lydia’s the one whose territorial,” Scott remarks, offhand.

Stiles stops dead in his tracks. “Wait. What? Who's the werecoyote? How do you mean, ‘territorial?’”

Scott pauses just ahead, eyes flitting across Stiles’ face. 

“Oh...uh. Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” 

 

 

In the end, it’s surprisingly Malia that begs the group to dip inside a Psychic store for a reading. Stiles stands outside the shoddy line of shady storefronts with his arms crossed, glaring at the flashing neon sign surrounded by fluorescent moons and stars.

“Why are we spending money on this flake?” Lydia voices his thoughts. “I’m literally a banshee. I can _ actually _ tell the future.”

Stiles’ arms remained crossed but he juts one out to point at Lydia, brows raising at the rest of the pack.

“I would be kinda fun,” Kira shrugs. “Lydia, your predictions are a little….”

“They’re depressing.” Liam interjects, and Lydia shoves his shoulder. “Besides,” he continues. “I wanna know if I’m gonna make lacrosse captain.” 

Malia rubs her hands with a grin. “It’s decided then.”

 

 

The inside of the psychic’s is almost completely dark, save the mood lighting in shades of red and purple. Thick tapestries adorn the room, covering every empty wall space. It smells heavily of incense. It’s so intently ‘psychic’ it gives Stiles a headache. 

One by one they’re beckoned through the doorway, and one by one the pack members part a beaded curtain hanging in the empty door frame to get their reading. Boyd and Erica are the first to go in together and come out looking pleased.

“What did she say?” Isaac asks. 

“We can’t tell you or it won’t come true!” Erica laughs. 

“I think that’s for wishes, babe. Not psychic readings.” Boyd grumbles to her with a sweet smile.

They filter in and out, most smiling, others scratching their heads, until it’s just Scott, Lydia and Stiles left. And then Scott disappears behind the curtain as well. 

It isn’t until Scott comes back out fifteen minutes later looking pale and awe struck, that Stiles senses something deeply wrong.

“What.” He says immediately, and the group goes quiet. 

“I think…” Scott mumbles, taking his seat in a daze. “I think she’s really psychic.” 

Three things happen. The group takes turns looking at each other, Lydia huffs beside him, and Stiles feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“We should go,” he leans over and whispers to her, and he hates the way it sounds coming out. He wonders if she can hear his trepidation, or the secrecy behind his tone. “Lydia, we should go.”

She turns to look at him with a question in her eyes, but then it’s her turn. When she looks back, something in his expression must make her pause.

“Hey,” she says, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “There’s no such thing as fate or psychics.”

“There’s no such thing as werewolves, either.” Scott says from across the room, but when Stiles looks to him, he’s just staring at the opposite wall with an empty expression.

 

When Lydia comes back out, she doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t look at any of them. 

  
  


When Stiles walks through the beaded curtain, he’s greeted with a long, dimly lit hallway. He follows it down to the single door, and opens it.

It’s like a smaller version of the waiting room. Same heavy curtains, same pungent smell, but a woman is sitting at a low, covered table in front of a crystal ball. 

“Hey there young man!” She croaks out, her voice clearly burdened by years of smoking. Stiles doesn’t move from the doorway, choosing instead to study her with squinting eyes. She looks old and young and completely unremarkable. “Aw, come on, don’t be a scaredy cat. Pop-a-squat, fella.”

He pops a squat right onto the fluffy cushion that’s supposed to be his chair, across from her.

“Stella.”

“Stiles.” 

She lets out a whacking, phlegmy cough. “Hoooo diggity, your parents did you dirty with that name, sonnie.”

He rolls his eyes so hard his head rolls along with it. “Can we just get on with it?” There was no way Scott was right about this whack being authentic. She reeks of nicotine and there’s purple lipstick on her teeth. 

“You gotta quit,” she says, randomly and congenially.

“...What.”

“If you don’t wanna smell like me, ya gotta quit smoking. She hates it anyway. So does your Pa.” 

Stiles feels his stomach bottom out. 

“While we’re on the subject,” she continues with a smirk, and pulls out a carton. “Mind?” 

He shakes his head and she lights the tip of her cigarette with an aged Zippo. She covers the end while she does it, like a wind might blow it out in the completely still room. Then she takes a long drag, and wordlessly hands him a fresh cigarette even though he didn’t ask for it.

He takes it anyway, and she lights it for him. 

“Yeah,” she says once he’s joined her in the dirty habit. “Thought you’d want to settle in after that bombshell, huh?”

Stiles brings his hand to his mouth and glares at her over the soft smoke. “What, do I smell like stale smoke too?”

She pulls a face, shaking her head and waving her hand dismissively. “Nah. She told that friend of yours you smell like men’s deodorant and spearmint. I think you smell spicier. Like whiskey, or your father’s cologne. The alpha thinks you smell….what’s the word for it….weighted.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Got your attention now, huh Stiles.” 

“What the hell do you want.” He’s angry. He doesn’t know why or how but he is. 

She breathes out smoke through her nose. It makes her look like an ugly, glittering, jeweled dragon. She turns to tap her cigarette into a porcelain ashtray shaped like a seahorse beside her.  

“You know what’s funny?”  _ Tap, tap, tap _ . “People are so certain of everything. You’re so certain that men and wolves are different, even though they’re both animals. You’re so certain that things are good and evil even though you yourself live in the inbetween of both.” She takes a drag, observing him with calculated eyes. “I do too. I’m not a bad person, but I’m certainly not your alpha friend either. When you open your eyes to look at the black and the white, soon you’ll come to find that it’s all just shades of gray anyway.” 

Stiles reaches across the table to snuff out his cigarette on her ashtray but she picks it up, moving it out of his way.

“What happened to your mother wasn’t their fault. What happened to you wasn’t your fault. And what happened to Lydia wasn’t hers. Or yours. You’ll never recover living like everything is one or the other. This or that. You’ve got to let it go, kid.”

He throws himself out of the beanbag as violently as possible and makes a beeline for the door. But her voice rings out loud and clear, like a threat. It’s timbre stops him in his tracks. 

“You’ll want to stay for this.” She hisses.

“Why,” he growls, staring her down. She stares back over the cat-eye frame of her gaudy glasses. 

“You know why, boy.” 

...He sits. He brings the cigarette back to his lips. Stella theatrically waves her occupied hand, gesturing to the crystal ball in front of her. 

“This is fake. It’s for show. Sometimes I’m fake too. Sometimes I tap into something real. Such is the way with all things and people. See? Shades of gray. Which shade do you want, Stiles? The black or the white; the truth or the lie.” 

Furiously, his heart pounds an erratic rhythm as he considers his choice. In the end, it isn’t really a choice anyway.

“...Tell me. I want to know.”

She smiles at him, and it feels akin to making a pact with the devil. Like he just sold his soul; signed his name in blood. And then, he watches in horror as her eyes roll back into her head, and it’s just white looking back at him.

When her voice speaks, it sounds far away, like it’s over his shoulder rather than directly in front of his face. “I told your alpha already, but you should know. It’s coming. They’re restless. They are lying in wait. Both of them.”

He feels himself leaning forward, breath leaving his parted lips in faint pants, like he’s scared to miss a single second.

“Who are they? Stella, who are they?”

“The black, and the white.”

He doesn’t know what she means. He feels panic rise up, swelling like a rolling tide. 

“How-how do I--?”

“That’s not your fortune, Stiles. You’re a part of the solution, but that’s not your burden to bear. It’s his.”

Stiles wipes his mouth with a trembling hand, physically forcing his breathing to slow. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths, but it’s fruitless. 

“It’ll be okay, kiddo,” she rasps, and he opens his eyes to look into her empty ones. “The universe always balances in the end. Are you ready to hear your fortune now, Stiles?”

He freezes, but drops his hand, giving her a singular, jerky nod. 

“You’ll fall in love with her. It will consume you. It will crash over you again and again in waves and it will be pain and pleasure and everything in between. Heaven and hell, beauty and chaos. Ecstasy. You will be lost in the ocean of it all, forever fighting from drowning in it, and you will never, ever recover. For it will be as it  _ always was _ . Such is your fate, Stiles. Such is your destiny.” 

Then, as sudden as the flip of a switch, her eyes roll back, and she’s smiling. The room seems less dark. The air, less heavy. But his chest is heaving and his eyes are wild and he is completely, and irrevocably changed. 

“There, there, kid.” She says, reaching over the table to pat his hand soothingly. “Try to remember that you wanted the truth. Now put that cigarette out. You’re getting ashes on my tablecloth.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone parts ways when they leave the psychic, scattering to go home in different directions. But Lydia and Stiles head in the same direction. They head home, but Stiles feels like a ship without harbor. Like he’s already lost in the ocean. Wharfless. 

 

* * *

 

A week goes by. Lydia is quiet. So is he. The wharfless feeling lasts.

 

* * *

  
Stiles is constantly at the station; Lydia is constantly trying to avoid utilizing the apartment when he’s away. So when he finds her sprawled out on the couch instead of with Scott or Kira or Allison for once, he freezes in the doorway.

She’s asleep. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun on the top of her head with strands falling across her face and across the pillow below resting below.  _ His _ pillow. 

He finds himself inching forward to get a better look. Her skin is so translucent and fair that he can see the criss-cross of delicate purple veins, mapping her eyelids. Her breathing is low and even, but she occasionally lets out a huffy sigh, lips extra pink and swollen with sleep. For a curious minute he can’t catch a breath for some reason. So he sits down at the foot of the couch near her head, hungrily gulping in air. 

When he turns back to look at her, her eyes lazily open.

“Hey Stiles,” she croaks, her normally raspy voice downright gravelly from sleep. 

“Hey you,” he feels himself say, “you’re sleeping on my bed.”

Her dimples are deep when she gives him a closed lipped smile. “Technically I’m always sleeping on your bed.”

“Right again, Lydia Martin. You good?”

“Mhm,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “Sleepy.”

Stiles is glad her eyes are closed when he reaches out to touch her. She can’t see his hand shaking.

His warm palm cups her jaw. The tips of his fingers curling against the back of her neck, his thumb brushing gently over her cheekbone. 

“That feels good,” she whispers, eyes still closed. She lets him stroke her cheek for a few minutes, and everything goes soft and hazy until her eyes open again. They don’t study him or judge him. In a sleepy daze, they just watch the moment as it is.  

He thinks this might be a moment that will stick with him. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll live to grow grey, and he’ll be lying in bed on a sunny Sunday morning, replaying it. An old man with this memory. 

“Hey,” she croaks, reaching up to cup the hand on her cheek. “Want your bed back?”

“It’s okay, you’re dozing.” 

“No. I mean your actual bed. Do you...want to….?” She looks at him, a little uncertain. And then he realizes what she’s asking.

He blinks a few times, swallows twice, nods his head vigorously, and finally tunes back in at the  bubbly sound of Lydia laughing at him. He can’t help but join in. For the first time in a week, he feels a settlement inside his shuddering bones. The sound of her laugh, grounding him.

 

* * *

  
  


In the woods of Beacon Hills, they gather, strengthening their numbers. They howl and snarl, blood dripping from their mouths and eyes glowing. The time has come. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened. Thanks for putting up with me. I love you more than words. 
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU TO JADE (@laughingsenselessly on AO3 and @wellsjahasghost on tumblr), FOR BETA'ING THIS CHAPTER. THE FIRST EVER CHAPTER IN THIS FIC TO BE BETA'D. I'M ENDLESSLY GRATEFUL FOR YOU.
> 
>  
> 
> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


	11. Push

There’s a spattering of light that flashes in the man’s eyes, and then, darkness. Again, the all-encompassing darkness. 

It’s all he’s seen in the past however many hours he’s been trapped here. Darkness from the night, from the back of his eyelids...darkness in the fur that shifts in and out of his hazy vision.

He hears the wet sound of panting. Of water on rock. The sound of his sandpaper tongue lapping the inside of his cheeks for whatever moisture he can gather.

Darkness, and wetness, and the forever-thudding-pound of his erratic and terrified heart.

There are howls in the night. There are whispers too.

The whispers tell him both nothing and everything. They include information that is meaningless to him, and yet, they foretell fury. Chaos. War.

He thinks of his wife at home, pregnant with their first child. He wonders how many hours he’s been gone. Wonders if she hates him for putting her through this, or if she’s too scared for his safety to be angry with him.

They were going to name their child after his grandmother. The nursery is lavender and gray. 

There’s a rustling to his right, and a voice rumbles out, “Abdiel, he’s awake.” 

And suddenly, from complete and total darkness, yellow eyes wink open, burning bright. But he can’t look at them, however many there are.

He can’t look anywhere but the singular pair of blood red. 

“Good,” the red says. “Bite him.”

 

 

* * *

  
  


Lydia winces as Stiles fingers work their way through a particularly nasty knot in her hair. She sucks in a breath through her teeth and he apologizes, stuttering and fumbling with her locks. It makes another shot of pain sear through her scalp.

“Stiles!” She hisses through her teeth.

“Sorry, sorry!” He flusters. 

Allison steps in, placing a hand on his shoulder blade and all but shoves him out of the way. “You had your chance, Stilinski. Time for the pros.”

Stiles concedes, raising his hands in defeat, and moves to sit in front of Lydia, crossing his legs to mimic hers. “You know, in hindsight, maybe today isn’t the best day to let me braid hair for the first time.”

“It was incredibly generous of me, wasn’t it.” Lydia smirks. 

Behind Lydia’s back, Allison and Kira move in beautiful synchronization, messaging mousse and applying shining gloss to the ends of Lydia’s hair. 

“Well,” Stiles sighs, “What can I do to help? Because we need to head to the courthouse in like, thirty minutes, and you’re not even dressed.” He trails a lingering finger over Lydia’s plush, pink bathrobe. You know. For...uh...emphasis. Or something. 

“Grab my lotion off the bureau?”

“You should really keep it on the nightstand next to the bed. Easy access.” 

Allison makes a disgusted noise, and Kira snorts through her nose, but Stiles dutifully gets up to cross the room, handing Lydia her lotion. She begins to pump it out, slathering it over her forearms and elbows.

“WAIT!” Stiles cries out, and they all startle. “Wait, sorry, shit-uh. Let me. Let me, it’s your big day, so let me do it,” he says, holding his hand out and motioning for the lotion. 

Lydia looks so incredulous that the moment feels absolutely ridiculous. Everything about today feels ridiculous. 

But, Stiles would be remiss to deny, it also feels good. Like, really fucking good. 

It feels _ right _ . 

He can’t help but let that feeling bloom in his chest. He doesn’t want to push it down. Doesn’t want to cancel it out. He’s getting married today, to a virtual stranger, and he feels  _ excited _ about it. 

Logically, he knows this is bound to end in disaster. He knows that this is a marriage of convenience and politics and secrecy. He knows that they come from different worlds, and that they are both tiptoeing around the truth. That they walk on eggshells around each other.

He knows that he’s a human, and she’s a banshee, and they will have to fight the rest of their lives against their nature. 

He also knows that it’s been a month since he first met Lydia Martin, and he wants to marry her.

He wants to marry the way she throws her shoes to the side as soon as she enters the doorway, despite his threats and eventual begging after he’s tripped on them countless times. He wants to marry the way she teaches him something every day. That he feels better, smarter, just being in her presence, like he can absorb her brilliance through osmosis. He wants to marry the way she rubs her wrists together after applying perfume.

She doesn’t have to marry him, but she will. And it feels really, _ really _ good. 

Stiles takes the lotion from her hands, and works the silky formula over her skin; the delicate bones of her elbow, down across her arms and to her hands. He massages it in, working it through her fingers with his own fingers. Kneading her palms with his thumbs. He tries to ignore how quiet the room has gotten. 

It’s Kira who clears her throat first. “You know, it’s kind of funny how cool you both are about seeing each other today. The groom isn’t supposed to see the bride on her wedding day.” 

“Yeah well,” Allison sighs, fluffing Lydia’s curls. “Nothing about this is very traditional, is it?”

Lydia keeps her eyes on Stiles’ hands moving over her own. “I don’t know about that. Being married off to a stranger for an advantageous, political leg-up seems about as traditional as you can get.” 

Stiles laughs through his nose. “True. But we’re not really strangers anymore.”

“Sure we are.” Lydia says, so softly. Stiles can’t read her expression. 

“...I guess...in a way,” he says admittedly. “But also, not so much.”

Lydia looks up from his fingers, which have found their way between hers, and haven’t moved since. “Explain.”

He lets out a shaky breath, swallowing when her green eyes lock into his. “I...I don’t know, Lydia. I just...I know how you take your coffee. I know it takes you exactly seventeen minutes in the shower. I know you keep buying the same nail polish color, in the exact shade, because you keep forgetting you already have it. I know what page you flip to in the New York Times, and that you’ve beaten the crossword forty-two times. And, um, just...little things, I guess. Little things like that.” 

It gets really quiet again.

“Uh,” Stiles says, getting up to cross the room, blushing furiously all the while. “Anyway, I should probably actually go hang out with the guys now. They’ve been waiting for me. I’ll leave you to it.”

Stiles turns, gently shutting the door. They all stare at it in silence for a little, until, 

“Wow.” Kira breathes.

“Wow.” Allison agrees.

“Yeah…” Lydia whispers. “Wow.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Scott has his hand out the window, riding the waves of the wind as he drives through the streets of Beacon Hills. Stiles watches houses blur past, chin in hand.

It feels ludicrous, two dudes in suits, driving a beat up jeep, on their way to a wedding.

_ His _ wedding.

Scott, for his part, let’s Stiles sit in somber silence, allowing his brain to run through whatever course of action it needed to run through just to get from point A to point B. From now to forever. But eventually, the silence breaks. 

“...You okay, dude?” Scott says, eyes still on the road. 

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs, straightening up and tugging down the front of his suit jacket.

“You look good, man. Really handsome.”

It should be weird, but it’s not. A lot of things Scott says should be weird, but they come out so sincere that it just makes him more likeable. 

“How about you? Lydia is your best friend, after all.”

“Yeah,” Scott nods. “I’d die for her.”

Again. Weird.

But sweet.

Scott continues, shrugging one shoulder. “I know she’s strong. And I’m going to be there for her, always. She gives me so much, you know? She’s the only one in my pack that never doubted me as an alpha. Or even a person, for that matter. The  _ only _ one.”

It’s a kind of loyalty Stiles can’t even begin to wrap his head around. 

“I guess...when I thought about marriage, I never expected it to happen this soon, under this kind of circumstance. I--uh--wanted...I wanted it to be...um, real.”

Scott looks over at him, eyes sorrowful and brows pinched. “Who says it’s not real, Stiles? Who says it can’t be?”

They stare at each other for a loaded moment until Stiles can’t bare it anymore. He turns to look out the window.

“I guess you could be right,” he says thickly. “There are worse people to marry than Lydia. She’s so smart. And like, secretly hilarious. And...she finds little ways to support people--let them know she’s thinking of them. She’s like...this puzzle that keeps unfolding. There’s a lot to her. And, shit I don’t know. When I’m walking by myself I miss the sound of her heels on pavement next to me. You know that feeling?” Stiles turns around to glance at Scott over his shoulder. 

Scott has a look on his face that Stiles can’t even begin to decipher.

“Yeah,” Scott says, blinking slowly. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

Stiles feels his stomach dip uncomfortably, but he doesn’t have time to think about the ramifications of what Scott means because suddenly Scott makes a left at Harrison Street instead of a right.  

“Hey Scott?”

“Yeah buddy?”

“Why are you driving to my house?”

 

* * *

 

He holds his breath when he walks in. He must have passed the threshold of the doorway a million times, walking in and out to lacrosse practice or combat training or even mundane errands he ran for his dad. Nothing of significance or consequence. 

This was not the case when finally summons the courage to put one foot in front of the other, and step into his childhood home, Scott hovering patiently behind him all the while. 

The walls are lined with pictures of him as a kid, as per usual. But on the opposing wall is a smiling, and at times, scowling, red headed girl. He goes right to them, mouth parted and eyes darting from one image to the next.

The girl is blowing bubbles, chasing a dog around a yard. Being kissed on both cheeks by a man and a woman. Reading a stack of books thicker than the typical Harry Potter series. 

It’s Lydia. The girl, so strangely human and familiar, is his wife to be.

Stiles is struck by the sudden dichotomy of Lydia having a childhood and being a banshee. It’s not that he thought she fell from the sky or anything. Logically, he knows she started in life the way he did. It’s just that the two lifestyles never melded in his mind. But now, it’s impossible to remain ignorant.

She’s inserted herself into his life-- into this part of his life, previously unknown to her. And she’s given this part to him as well. Now they’re together, in all parts, in all worlds. 

He can’t speak.

“Come on,” Scott says. “They’re all out back.”

  
  


 

 

The wedding is a blur to both of them; Stiles, and Lydia. 

Stiles remembers coming into the backyard to see a small gathering of people, parted by the gargantuan oak tree. One one side stands his father, Allison, and the Argents. Lydia’s pack shifts with uncertainty on the other side. In the middle, Chris Argent stands with a stack of papers.

Stiles remembers numbly approaching, and waiting with the crowd. 

Then he remembers Lydia walking toward him, dressed in white, elbows linked with Scott. He remembers Scott crying and kissing Lydia on the cheek. Stiles remembers wanting to cry with him. And he remembers that Lydia looks so fucking gorgeous she’s blinding. She’s both brighter and warmer than the sun that hits his eyes and it’s impossible. So impossible. This is all so fucking impossible. But it doesn’t stop it from being true, either. 

Lydia remembers saying her vows, eyes locked on Chris Argent's, and how the ice blue of them grounds her. The words are perfunctory and not flowery by any means. There’s no declaration of true and undying love, and how it transcends time and space. There is no speak of God or the afterlife. It’s all done the way this transaction had always been intended--political and succinct. 

But she does remember how she and Stiles hold hands through the entire thing, even though they weren’t asked to. She remembers how she could feel his fingers tremble in her palm, and how he subconsciously squeezed during the phrase, ‘To have and to hold. Unparted, from now until forever.’ 

They both remember the kiss. 

Stiles leaning in, stunned and numb, eyes fluttering. Lydia closing her own before they meet. Lips soft and brushing. No push. No pull. Just blending, and then as they part, lips slightly clinging together. And then her eyes open, but Stiles’ are still closed as he leans back, eyebrows helplessly drawn together and up. 

The crowd leaves almost immediately after. Allison will later tell Stiles that it felt like they were witnessing something that shouldn’t be watched. 

And then it’s just the two of them. Alone in his backyard. 

“Come on,” Stiles tells Lydia, and pulls back the swing for her to sit. “Let me push.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> redstringbanshee.tumblr.com xx


End file.
